Deliberate Decisions
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A stranger arrives in Vegas looking for Grissom who happens to be far away; but this stranger meets Sara and a long-ago event is made known. And of course, there is romance GSR! , fluff, and some of the other guys show up.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Another GSR story, short first chapter, but more to come and longer chapters! Enjoy and we always appreciate your reviews and comments. We own nothing, just having fun with our favorite characters from CSI. _

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 1

The young man checked the papers in his hand while raking his right hand through his hair—a useless gesture made because of nerves. His blue eyes glanced around taking in the tourists, the baggage claim area, and the rental car signs ahead of him. He joined the line of waiting customers before he noticed the self-serve kiosk bank to his right. Again, a nervous movement of his hand to his face and he stepped out of line and headed to the kiosk where the line of people was much shorter. A few minutes later, he walked into the sheltered parking garage, eyes searching for the number assigned to his rental car. An employee looked at the paperwork and handed him a keyless entry remote, at the same time pointing to a row of hybrid cars.

"The white one is yours," the young man said. "Have a great time in Vegas!"

Rolling his suitcase to the trunk, he pressed a button that popped the trunk open. He was not sure if he would have a great time, wasn't sure of what he would find by going against all advice; well, he thought, he was here and he'd learn something. As long as his expectations were not high, he had nothing to lose. As he closed the trunk, he wiped a hand across his face and continued the movement as he raked fingers through his wavy hair. Then he fished his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slid them on; Vegas had a bright sun—brighter than he had thought and warmer temperature than he had imagined.

He punched an address into the car's system; no use wasting time. He had made a decision weeks ago. He had an agenda, had a name, had an address. In a week, a temporary job waited, one month in Las Vegas as he decided what would be the next step in his life. He took a deep breath and, driving carefully, he left the airport.

Curiosity of the unknown had brought him to this city in America's desert; he had insisted to a few close friends he wanted nothing more than to make a low-key, casual contact. At the same time, he could work—his first official job in health care—for thirty days, temporary work for excellent pay.

His eyes took in the majestic shining skyscrapers of casinos, hotels, adult amusement searching for the one thing that interested him—a rollercoaster rocketed into view and he grinned. If he did nothing else, he promised himself a ride. He had already experienced gambling and had learned to stay away from what could be an easy addiction. And his interests in the world did not extend to the gaudy buildings of plastic and plaster and glass; he looked forward to exploring the area outside of the city, not the closed, air-conditioned, artificially perfumed interiors of the buildings he passed.

Even with traffic, it did not take him long to reach his destination and he pulled into a vacant space near the end of the parking lot. Watching people enter and exit the building, he tried to slow his pulse, gathering courage he knew he had. His blue eyes darkened at the thought of what he was going to do. Not too late to back out, he thought as he reached for a large envelope in his bag. But backing out of his mission was not going to happen. For nearly a decade, he had thought about what he would do—he had searched, he had read, and he had stayed away.

Now, with his formal education complete, with a degree and professional title, he had decided it was time to confront his past—not confront, he corrected. Just make contact. He tucked the envelope under his arm and got out of the car.

_A/N: And with this short introduction, you will have to wait to find out who is this Vegas visitor! Leave your comments and the next chapter will appear quickly! Thanks for reading! _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for the reviews! And Grissom makes an appearance in this chapter!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 2

Gil Grissom knew he had never been as hot as he was today. His clothes stuck to him like a damp dirty rag as sweat formed and quickly evaporated leaving fine grit clinging to exposed skin and clothing. Looking around, he realized the others with him looked much the same—grimy with sweat and dirt, clothes and faces were almost indistinguishable in the scorching sun and blistering wind—but not one person was complaining.

Wiping his face with a sleeve which only moved the dirt around, he grinned, looked at the isolated desert surrounding him, and bent to his work. Six short weeks he had to complete this dig in a remote area of the Gobi desert—he and seven other dirt diggers were gathering as much information as possible about little-known ancient insects that were part of a much larger dig. He could not keep a smile from his face as he thought about the years—literally years—of planning, waiting, approvals, more planning, more waiting that had been involved for this trip. Every person on the trip was an expert in their field and when final plans had been approved and permits obtained, not one person backed out. And saying it was a difficult research trip did not really describe their actual conditions.

They were eighty miles from the nearest settlement—called a town, but barely met the minimum definition. Each night, they slept in small tents wrapped in layers as temperature dropped. Everything needed for a week was hauled in, loaded inside and on top of the dusty orange vehicle. They brought gasoline for the van, food and water to last for a week, the barest necessities for camping, and their needed equipment. Once a week, all eight piled into the van and drove into town for hot showers, a real bed, and decent internet connections. Then they returned to the remote site and dug for another six or seven days.

Grissom was one of three entomologists and with his forensic background, he was working double-duty among the insects and their mummified human hosts. This was clearly an area where violence and nature combined to create a magnificent mystery—and his desire was to be one of the people who solved the mystery.

Someone yelled from a spot to his left and he turned as a canvas covered water canteen sailed through the air. Most of the group did not care if they ate but once a day, but all knew they had to drink. He easily caught the container by its strap and waved a "thanks". Wiping his face again, he sat down, removed the cap and drank until the canteen was empty. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he unfolded a long email from his wife and read it again—for the tenth time, probably.

It would be three more weeks before he returned to Vegas; on a calendar six weeks was not a long time. Yet it would be nearly sixty days, due to delays in getting final permits, before he could share a bed with the only woman he had ever loved—a very long time—so this woman, his wife, his lover, sent him long emails which he printed and kept with him as some kind of substitute for her warm, loving body. He had done this for several years—she knew he would which was one reason she wrote long emails, after finding the worn copies in his clothes. He laughed out loud as he remembered her teasing, but she had continued to send long, detailed accounts of her days ever since.

There were times he questioned why he did this—leaving his wife behind, staying away for days and weeks at a time—but the pull of field research, actually placing his hands where no living human had touched, was so exciting that Sara would insist he go. He knew his restlessness was one of the reasons she helped to pack his bag and promised she would not be lonely—not much—while he was away.

"Thirty years, Gil! You waited three decades to do something you love. Go!" Sara encouraged him as no one else had ever done.

Sara. Sweet Sara—his sweet Sara. She understood him as no one else. Even his own mother had objected—continued to object—to the work of his second career.

Sometimes Sara would meet him for a long weekend, but this location was so remote, so isolated, she would not be flying into China or Mongolia.

He read her printed words again, smiling as he did. He could hear her voice, imagine her laughter, and remember the slight citrus fragrance of her body as he read about her days. After a few minutes, he carefully folded the paper and put it back in his pocket before resuming his work.

_A/N: Enjoy! Review! Next chapter returns to Vegas and Sara! Thanks for reading and your encouraging words!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 3

A day in court exhausted Sara Sidle more than working a double shift so she did not try to stifle her yawn as she listened to Nick and Greg go on and on about the latest dead body. The body had been found in the middle of a high school football field; a teacher with her throat cut from ear to ear, and—causing their excitement—the body was covered with feathers.

Finally, after a second or third yawn, Greg pushed his cup of coffee in her direction.

"Drink this," he suggested.

She laughed. "If I'm going to help you with this case, I really need my own cup and extra sugar!"

Nick chuckled as he watched the two, bantering and teasing like siblings, feeling a little old as he remembered the first time he had seen them, even though there was only a few years difference in ages. Somehow, Sara did not age, not in his eyes. Greg's teasing had turned to Sara's husband.

"Three more weeks," Sara was saying. "He's having a great time—once in a lifetime experience, he says."

"What's it like?" Nick asked as he turned to face them.

"Hot," Sara said. "Hot in the day and surprisingly cool at night. Very dusty, but you know Gil—the dirtier he can get the happier he is."

Softly, Nick laughed. "No, not Mongolia. I mean what's it like for you—when he's gone. How do you—I don't want to pry, but it must be lonely—or is it?"

Sara tore open and added another packet of sugar to her coffee, slowly stirring it as she returned to the table and sat beside Nick. Greg slipped around the table and took another chair. They got very little out of Sara, especially about her life with their former supervisor, but something about her movements, the odd expression on her face, caused Greg to think his friend and co-worker might reveal a few personal details of her life.

Her eyes darkened and she seemed to slip into a moment of daydreaming, gazing at the ceiling for a long minute; her hands circled the coffee cup. When she spoke, her voice was soft, yet not hesitant, as if she had thought about the topic for a while.

"Honestly, I'm lonelier after we talk—this trip we are talking to each other once a week and afterwards, I miss him so much it hurts. Most of the time, I know he's doing something he enjoys—something he has wanted to do for years so I'm not lonely—I'm happy." Her eyes glanced at Nick. "I miss him physically very, very much! Never doubt that!"

She laughed. Her finger circled the edge of the coffee cup. "If you ever say anything to Gil about this, I will pull your tongue out—yours too, Greg." Automatically, the two men shook their heads. "From the time Gil was very young, he always felt responsible for his mother, and, to be honest, she encouraged it." When Nick grinned, she stopped talking.

He said, "That does not surprise me," and waved his fingers for her to continue.

"Years ago, he was offered a trip to Iraq—in his twenties and before everything fell apart over there—he would have been there for nine to ten months with an archeology group. To use a common expression—his mother pitched a fit." She glanced at Nick who was still smiling. "He didn't go, but he always wished he had.

"When we were in Costa Rica, and then in Paris, the archeology bug got under his skin—literally, I think. All these archeologists are into human history but few are really looking at insect activity." She grinned as both men nodded. They had worked with her husband for years knowing an insect would get him to a crime scene faster than anything else.

"I am not like Betty and seeing his excitement, hearing it in his voice, I know he is happy. And—and I am." Smiling, she made a fist and softly punched Nick and did the same to Greg. "And I know how much trouble you two can get into if I'm not around."

"How are you and Miss Betty getting on?" Nick asked, remembering a case involving the college where Grissom's mother worked.

Sara smiled again. "Much better. We are different women but I see her at least once a week. She complains about Gil staying away too much and I smile and agree."

Their conversation turned back to the case and by the time their coffee cups were empty, they were ready to head to the crime scene—the football field—before the sun disappeared. As they passed the front desk, Sara's named was called.

"Sara," Judy waved to catch her attention. "There's someone here looking for Dr. Grissom."

_A/N: And a special thanks to readers who leave a review or a comment! More to come-and a promise you will find out who this stranger is very soon!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: And the 4th short chapter-thanks so much to everyone!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 4

His plan had been to leave the envelope yet the lady at the front desk had asked him to wait as she answered the phone and then she was calling to another woman.

As the dark-haired woman approached, he felt blood rush to his face. Sara, Dr. Grissom's wife, the woman had said—of course, he would be married; this tall, attractive woman was Gil Grissom's wife. Do something, he thought. Automatically, his hand went out.

"I'm Martin Andrews," he managed to say without stuttering, without his voice quivering. He had not planned on a meeting like this. He noticed the two men lingering in the hallway and smiled. He could handle this, he thought.

Sara shook the young man's hand. "Sara Sidle," she said. He looked familiar, she thought; her mind tried to place the name and face as her brain clicked through a quick mental list of victims, families, lawyers, even students.

"We've never met. I—I'm looking for Dr. Grissom and the lady said he had retired but you were here." He held a thick brown envelope in his hand. "If I could ask a favor, I have some papers I'd like for him to have."

Sara took the packet, nodding her head. "Sure—sure, he won't be back for a while. Is this something urgent or can it wait?" She had no idea what the young man might want; perhaps a research project. She doubted it was related to a past crime, but decided to ask. "Can someone here help you? Can you tell me what this is about?"

Suddenly, Martin Andrews wanted to leave the building; he had not expected to meet the wife nor was he willing to reveal the contents of the envelope. Yet he wanted to make a positive impression. Quickly, he took a deep breath and made a decision.

"It's not urgent. Actually, I'm in town for several weeks—my phone number is there. He can call me." His words rushed ahead of his thoughts. "I—I would like—I want him to see—to read… if you want to look at what—at the papers," he nodded, "that's okay." His voice dropped to a whisper; he could not believe he had told her to read the contents of the envelope. Nervously, he continued. "I'm—I'm not…"

Sara realized the young man was embarrassed, worried, maybe frightened, by something. Her hand touched his elbow. She glanced at Greg and Nick. "Go without me—I'll be there in a while."

Nick silently mouthed the words "You sure?" She nodded.

Turning back to the visitor, she said "Let's talk. I'll get a visitor's pass and we can go to the break room or one of the interview rooms where it's quiet."

Her voice was calm, encouraging; she could be a hostage negotiator or a psychiatrist with that voice, he thought. A very soft laugh came from Martin. "I'm usually very sure of myself, but I would like to talk with you—I think."

In a few minutes, Sara led the way to the break room and closed the door. She offered a drink which was refused and poured herself another cup of coffee. The young man's back was to her as she got coffee and as she turned, she had a moment of déjà vu so strongly affecting her brain that her coffee cup clattered against the countertop splashing coffee on her hand. Seconds passed before she felt the heat on her skin.

When Martin turned to face her, she saw it again—the familiarity of the young man, the way he turned, the way he held his hands, the shape of his hands—caused a light-headed sensation to engulf her—suddenly, without a doubt, she knew why he was asking for her husband. It was impossible to count the thoughts that cluttered her brain as seconds passed. Her eyes focused, blurred and re-focused as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

_A/N: And another cliff-hanger, sort of! Read, review, and the next chapter SOON! _


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: And because we've left you with 'cliff-hanging' chapters, here's the next one! A longer chapter! We love reviews!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 5

Before Sara could gather her thoughts and bring herself out of sudden numbness, the young man spoke. "I don't want to cause problems—I'm not here for anything other than to make contact" he said as he pulled a chair away from the table and motioned for her to sit down. He had seen the realization, the recognition in her face.

As Sara took the chair, he said, "I really didn't plan this well—I found out several years ago that he worked here and I never thought he would be retired. I—I am sorry." He reached for her coffee cup and placed it before her. Realizing he was talking too much, he paused. "I'm sorry." Hesitantly, he touched her hand. "He doesn't know—he's never known about me."

Sara surprised herself by asking, "How old are you?" in a voice that sounded normal.

Her question made him smile. "Thirty this year."

"And your mother?" Again, her voice sounded normal but her brain seemed disconnected with what her eyes were seeing, what her ears were hearing.

"My mother died of breast cancer when she was forty-five years old, so that would mean she would be fifty-five if she had lived."

"Why now?" And with this question, Sara's voice quivered, slightly.

The young man named Martin Andrews had watched his mother die for a decade. When she knew she would not survive, she had given her son what he had asked for since he was a child—the name of his father. He said this to the solemn-faced woman sitting across the table. "I found him quickly—that was the easy part. But I was in college and I didn't know what to say to a man who did not know I existed. So I decided to wait until I finished my education." Without thinking he pressed fingertips of one hand against those of the other hand; he knew he wanted her approval. Realizing Sara was watching his hands, he looked at what he was doing, quickly placing both hands on the table, before he continued.

The large envelope was on the table between them. "I've put a lot of information in there—my birth certificate—it doesn't name my father. My mother's diary—most of what I know came from her diary. I've had a DNA test done—one that can be compared to another. There's a copy of my grandfather's will—I have money from him—I don't want you or Dr. Grissom to think this is about money." Again, he realized he was talking too much. "I guess I should say my grandfather played a big role in my life—from my mother's diary I learned he was the one who insisted she would not tell my father about me."

"Do you know how they met?" Sara asked, trying to keep a calmness in her voice that belied the unchecked thoughts in her brain. His hands, she thought, were Gil's hands.

When Sara had turned from the coffee pot and looked at Martin Andrews standing in the break room, she knew why he looked familiar—the way he stood, the angle of his neck, the curls along his hairline were so similar to her husband's that she had thought her brain was playing tricks with her eyes. When he turned, she realized his eyes were the same shade of blue and the short beard covered a very familiar dimple in his chin. Without a doubt, she knew she was with her husband's son. A son—a child he had never known.

"My mother was working in an art gallery. They—they did not know each other long. About six weeks according to her diary."

With difficulty, Sara managed to breathe as she took in what the young man was saying, trying to listen to what he was saying about a life her husband had never known existed. An art gallery—he had mentioned an art gallery.

"Where was the gallery?"

"Santa Monica, a small place." Again, he smiled as his eyes met the pair of glistening, dark ones intently watching him. He felt like a living insect under a microscope. "I actually found it several years ago—a new owner since my mom worked there, but—again, my grandfather. He considered himself an art collector so I placed several paintings there and," he made a chuckle so familiar to Sara it caused tears to form, "and it turns out old granddad had an eye for art!"

He noticed the rapid blinking of Sara's eyes, realized something he had said or done had brought her almost to tears, and quickly said, "I'm so sorry—I'm talking too much. I didn't mean to spring all of this on you—not this way."

Sara shook her head, "No, no, it's not that. You are so much like Gil—you don't even know how much you look like him, do you?" She gave him a weak smile. "He—he's a wonderful man, Martin. Kind, considerate, a brilliant mind." She looked up and met replicas of the blue eyes she had loved for so long. "You have his eyes and his hands and, underneath your beard, I think you have a cleft in your chin."

Her last comment made him laugh. His finger pressed against his chin. "It's a dominant gene, you know. Once I had Dr. Grissom's name, I found his photograph—as a speaker at a conference—and suddenly I had a lot of questions answered."

He indicated the envelope. "I wrote a biography—I wanted him to know about my love of science. When I was nine or ten, I talked my granddad into organic farming—or at least a few acres—because I didn't want the insects to die. Well, a few acres turned into a few more, and by the time I went to college, he was running one of the largest organic farms in the state. It still is—but leased. I never had an interest in working as a farmer."

From her outward appearance, Sara had recovered, stifled her emotions for now, and asked, "So your grandfather is dead?"

Martin nodded. "Four years ago. He never wanted me to look for my father—that's in the diary—and one of the reasons I waited."

"What do you do? You said you would be in Vegas for several weeks—vacation time or here for this?"

"I'm a physician—newly minted, ready to practice—emergency medicine—trauma. I have a thirty-day contract with Sunrise Hospitals here and then I'll decide where to go."

"Wow!" Sara's surprise showed in her voice. "An emergency room doctor—you'll stay busy. And you chose Vegas—because…"

He grinned. "I decided this would be the easiest way to make contact with a father who doesn't know about his son. If I were working, I wouldn't have time to be a—an intrusion." He chuckled again, the same soft sound of his father's. "And now, I've intruded on you and your work. Again, I'm so sorry. I know this is a surprise—I came in expecting to leave the envelope, not too meet you or Dr. Grissom."

Sara, her own personal experience with an unknown history had been a dark hole in her life, said, "I want to hear more, but I'm working tonight," she pushed away from the table. "Later—I'd like to talk, show you around."

Martin nodded. "I'd like that."

"Gil," Sara managed a smile, "Gil is in the Gobi desert with an archeology group." When the young man's eyebrow arched over one eye, she felt the same odd familiarity about the young man and continued, "he's been away for several weeks and will probably be gone for several more."

Martin's hand touched the envelope. "Read all of this, please. I want you to know—they were younger than I am now—and according to my mother, they had fun but neither one thought they were in love. It's not that kind of story." Softly, he laughed at his words. "It would mean a lot to me if you would read it."

Sara nodded. "Your phone number is here? I'll read it and we'll talk." Her fingers closed around the package.

When Martin stood and extended his hand, she took it.

"Thank you…"

"Sara—call me Sara."

He grinned; his smile a near duplicate of one in a photograph she had taped inside her locker. "Sara," Martin Andrews said, knowing he liked this woman. "I apologize for the way this happened—I really am sorry." His smile widened to show a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. "And you haven't questioned the possibility that I'm wrong, a fraud—not the son of your husband."

Sara said, "No, there is no doubt—not to me, not with your appearance. And Gil has no brothers or cousins—I know who you are." She frowned slightly and then decided to add, "Gil's mother is still living. At some point she will have to know—not soon—but she will—let's say she will be the one most likely to need proof."

Martin Andrews face brightened with surprise. "Betty Grissom! She's in the diary—she owned the art gallery where my mother met my father! I didn't think—I guess I thought she was dead!"

Sara assured him Betty Grissom was very much alive and the young man smile widened. He said, "I look forward to meeting her—but she doesn't have to know the truth."

Laughing, Sara said, "Oh, she'll know. She'll figure it out."

A few minutes later, promising to meet again, Sara walked with the son of her husband to the lobby and watched as he left. She went to the locker room, opened her locker, and looked at the photographs taped to the door. Her finger traced over the face of her husband—the photographs were recent ones, taken when they were together in Costa Rica, in Paris, in Ecuador, in South Africa, in a local park. Suddenly, tears came to her eyes; she gripped the metal door as a sob erupted from her lungs.

Quickly, she hurried into the shower area and grabbed a towel. She would not—could not—let anyone see or hear her, she thought, as she turned a faucet. With cold water splashing over her face, she made a decision.

A few minutes later, Sara found D.B., and without asking for an explanation, he agreed Nick and Greg could handle the case. She was free for twenty-four hours.

_A/N: And now you know! Or is this what it seems? More to come-so leave a comment! Tell us what you think!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Another chapter-checking in on Grissom! _

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 6

Looking westward, the eight men could see the immense sky and a dark shape that looked like a line of thunderstorms building a towering cauliflower shape. But it wasn't a thunderstorm, not here.

"Sand storm—a big one," one of the men said.

Traveling nearly seventy miles an hour, the sand storm gave little time to cover and bag sensitive equipment, gather water, and jam a few personal items inside the crowded van. The only one in the group who had previous experience with a Gobi Desert sand storm assured them it would pass quickly, but not before turning the sky a brownish-red and blocking out the sun.

The researchers settled into cramped positions inside the van, talked for a time about weather and global warming as the dust particles pelted the van, but soon conversations turned to personal subjects, who the men had left at home, wives, children, and pets as the day became a brown-tinged night. One man, older than the others, said, "This will be my last long trip. I'd rather sleep with my wife in my old bed than listen to you guys snore and complain about missing your wives!"

He shifted on the bench seat and punched Grissom's shoulder. "Hey, Gris, how's your wife? Wish she had come with us!" He laughed, saying "Grissom has a wonderful wife—she arrives with clean clothes and makes this guy presentable to the rest of the world! Remember when she met us in South Africa?"

Grissom nodded and chuckled as he pushed his hat back. "She is wonderful."

"Yeah, she had figured out how to get first class upgrades so this guy ended up eating hot fudge sundaes while the rest of us were packed like cattle in the rear of the plane!"

"How long have you guys been married?" A younger man sitting in the back of van asked. "My wife isn't really happy with this trip—not the extended time—says our kids won't even know me when I get home."

Two other men immediately laughed and said, "They will!"

The men continued talking about wives, children, dogs, and finally turned to favorite foods which continued until the sun broke through the thinning gale. Wind died as suddenly as it had arrived and the fine dust settled into rippled ridges as far as they could see. As furious as the storm had seemed, it left little destruction other than a toppled tent and several inches of fine dirt covering everything around them. By the time the tent was set up again, dust brushed out of bedding, tarps removed from the dig, and workspace uncovered, a red sun was setting and the men opened cans and ate unheated food for dinner.

A native group of sheep herders lived several hundred yards from the dig site and several times a week the women arrived with a cooked brew of mutton stew and pots of salty, milky tea. The men generously paid for the food and traded provisions brought with them, and while the Mongolians were friendly, puzzled by the work of digging into the barren soil, they treated the men as temporary visitors who would leave as quickly as they arrived.

For Gil Grissom the time between sunset and complete darkness was the only time of the day he allowed his thoughts to travel to the other side of the earth. Using a penlight, he wrote letters he would never mail, but like his wife's emails, he knew the letters would be read. The thought of Sara reading his words, while in bed, snuggling next to him, always made him feel they were not thousands of miles apart.

When he finished his description of the sand storm, his thoughts turned to his life with Sara. He seldom thought about life before Sara; easily he smiled at his first memory of her—long legs, a pony tail, a wide smile. He loved her smile—he loved everything about her—and wondered what she was doing this minute as he calculated time. Inside a book, he found a photograph of his wife but looking at it caused a deep ache in his chest as his fingers traced over its well-worn surface.

Sara had been the one who insisted she would return to Vegas and to the crime lab and had made their married life work even as he traveled to far-flung places around the world. She was his stabilizing inspiration, his encouragement, his home. And he realized he missed her in every cell in his body. He folded his letter and placed it inside a book with the photograph. Perhaps, he thought, it was time he ended his frequent traveling and arranged to stay at home with his wife. There was one significant issue they needed to address; he had put it off long enough because he did not want to face the problematic outcome. He sighed as he wiped a hand across his face. Maybe it was time for life to take another direction.

He looked at the star filled sky once more before folding his camp stool and crawling into his tent, placing his shoes at the end of his cot and touching Sara's emails in his shirt pocket. Easily, he slipped into a peaceful sleep, almost dreamless, until a morning sun brightened his tent and he began another day in the desert. A moment before sleep came, he decided it was time to make a decision.

_A/N: And thank you to everyone for showing your support of our little bits of writing! Enjoy! And another chapter will appear soon! _


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: And another chapter from Martin Andrews pov! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 7

Martin Andrews drove through Las Vegas in a daze, following the voice activated system in the rental car, until he arrived at the residence hotel across the street from the hospital where he would work for a month. He had parked the car so he could see the hospital—the dark glass reflecting the lights of Vegas, people hurrying to and from the building. He was satisfied with the temporary job he had; if only for a few weeks. Emergency trauma physicians were an elite bunch; most worked for a decade and then moved into another specialty area. His long-term plans were uncertain; he'd give himself five years of trauma before moving on to something else.

Sighing, he reflected on his past. He had gathered enough information once he had the name of his father to find the man, learned where he worked, postponed contact until he was emotionally ready, and then all his planning had shattered like a dropped china cup once he had entered the crime lab.

He had not planned well, not as well as he should have, for the unexpected—he wanted to leave the envelope and wait to be contacted, but instead he had spilled his life to a stranger—the wife of his father. She had been upset yet sincere; he hoped she would read his mother's diary. And then he smiled, realizing for the first time that Sara, tall and slim, dark hair and eyes, shared similar physical characteristics with his mother.

Sitting in the car with the air conditioner blowing cool air on his face, Martin attempted to replay his conversation with Sara Sidle. He could feel her eyes probing him; she had dark eyes like his mother and grandfather but her eyes were laced with gold sparks—maybe it was her reaction that caused the fire in her eyes. Sara's dark hair and oval face were not much different from dozens of women, but there was something about her that Martin could not quite nail down, something that set her apart from other women. Maybe it was her height, something in the way she stood and looked at him; or maybe it was the direct way she had confronted him. He wiped his hand over his face. He had never had anyone recognize him because he looked like someone, but she did.

Martin took a deep breath reaching farther back in his memories. He had had an easy childhood—born with a silver spoon in his mouth that had become gold-plated as he grew older. His grandfather was the largest land owner in the area, employing a dozen men year-round and a hundred more when crops were picked. His mother was a strong and capable woman who took care of everyone, especially her son, with a creative intent. Until he was six and sent to school, he had not given one thought to an absent father. It had taken another five years before he asked his mother and grandfather about his father.

As then, he laughed. His mother was always laughing and she had laughed as she related a story of a short romance with a smart, handsome young man who had as little interest in marriage as she did. He was a "love child" she said in the truest sense of the term. After she returned to the farm where she had grown up, her father welcomed her home, perhaps not delighted at the prospect of her pregnancy, but by the time the baby was born, he welcomed his grandson with pride and joy usually associated with one's own child.

His grandfather's response had been: "Never met your father. Never needed too." And then slapped a hand on Martin's back, saying "All this will be yours one day, son." They had spent the rest of the day riding a tractor around the farm. Not long after his question, his grandfather granted Martin's wish and provided a few acres for an organic farm "so the bugs wouldn't have to die."

In Martin's eighth year of school, he took a standardized exam and blew the top off previous scores in the local public school. His grandfather was impressed and from that year, Martin had been sent to summer camp—space camp, math camp, science camp—at any university offering a program. He skipped his junior year and at seventeen, was admitted to Stanford. His grandfather presented him with a new car and a limited bank account, wished him well, reminding his grandson that the farm would be waiting for him. By the time Martin finished medical school, his mother was dead; his grandfather would live a few more years, never giving up his idea that his grandson would return to live on the farm.

Martin returned enough to give the old man hope, but he had found his passion in the emergency rooms during his intern days. Now, his mother and grandfather dead, with enough wealth to easily live a modest life if he chose to do so, he wanted to meet his biological father—see the man whose genes had formed his looks, given him blue eyes and curly hair, and who, with some certainty, had given him the intelligence and fortitude to pursue a medical degree.

Shaking himself out of his memories, he got out of the car, took his suitcase from the trunk, and entered the hotel that would be 'home' for a few weeks. He could wait for Dr. Gil Grissom to return; his wife—Martin grinned and shook his head—his step-mother would get in touch with him. Martin had sensed the curiosity of a scientist in the woman; she would make a decision before her husband returned.

A/N: More to come!


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: A longer chapter to last you a few days while we go play! _

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 8

Sara made it home, walked Hank, took a shower, found something to eat, all the while she could not take her thoughts away from the large envelope on the counter—and how it had gotten to her. Martin Andrews. Her husband's son—of that she did not doubt. And because she did not refute or reject what she had heard, she found an odd realization in acceptance—Gil, the only person she had ever loved with every fiber of her being, had a son. And that's where her analytic brain stopped; she could not open her emotions, not yet. Finally, she sat down, fingering the edges of the envelope before she slid a finger underneath the flap.

Once she up-ended the package, scattering its contents on the table, she was puzzled for a few minutes as she raked her fingers across photographs, a stack of papers clipped together, and several small books. Martin had mentioned a diary—but what she found was five journals, small colorful note books she had seen before—not one diary. Flipping through one, she found a name—Helen—and a date written inside the front cover and picked up three of the books before she found one with the earliest date. Putting them in order, she put them to one side and looked at the photographs.

In Sara's work, finding clues in the lives of the dead and missing, she had lost the usual apprehension of looking into other's lives, and with the diaries, photographs, and papers before her, she used the same meticulous methods she used in her career. Everything in the package was arranged in chronological order from the first diary or journal, followed by Martin Andrews' birth certificate, photographs of him, and another journal.

Sara moved the photographs and documents around so the journals lay side-by-side; it took a few minutes to arrange the two dozen pictures in order as she studied the small baby growing into a teenager, an infant in his mother's arms, a little boy and an older man with a huge tractor, more photographs as the boy aged into a young man. Martin had been thorough—not only was his birth certificate in the package, but his mother's and his grandfather's death certificates, a copy of his grandfather's will, copies of several diplomas, a financial statement of several pages showing a significant sum of money, several legal documents from an attorney, and a comprehensive DNA test. Martin had been named after his grandfather.

Picking up the first of the small books, she turned to the first page, quickly reading several pages. The handwriting was faded ink, probably a fountain pen, she thought, when she noticed spots of ink along the edges of each page. But gradually it occurred to her the spots were deliberately spaced—single spaced dots became a cluster on the bottom of the page. On the next page the dots made a single flower—a rose. By the time she got to the fourth page, she no longer noticed the dots as she read the words of a young woman who clearly enjoyed a charmed and satisfying life. Humor and happiness showed in the writing and near the end of the first book, Sara laughed out loud when she realized she was reading a stranger's description of Betty Grissom as "a little woman with a big chip on her shoulder" who had advertised for a part-time employee.

Several pages into the second journal, Sara read: "Mrs. Grissom's son came in today—what a flirt! Clearly, not like his mother. Cute too." Quickly, she scanned the next two pages. "Gil returned today and we hid in the back room until his mother walked in! He's a lot of fun." The following pages were filled with descriptions of 'dates'—never actually written as an official date, but from the descriptions in the diary, the two young people enjoyed themselves as they became acquainted.

Sara smiled as she read about the young man she had never known.

Just as quickly as Gil Grissom had been mentioned on the pages, he disappeared. Sara flipped back through several pages thinking she had missed something—some word or note indicating more than movies, ice cream, a bike ride, a swim in the ocean, kissing in the back room—but there was nothing. Slowly, Sara read and turned each page in the journal; there were paragraphs about the weather, a customer in the art gallery, a roommate who decided to move back home—and that's where Sara found her answer:

"_I left a note with Gil's mother telling him how much I enjoyed his company. Mrs. Grissom was very nice when I explained why I was leaving. My dad even purchased four paintings from her before we left. And going back to the farm means I can spend more time with my own paintings instead of those of others! Who knows—maybe I'll be the next Georgia O'Keeffe—not likely. Unless I paint soybeans and winter wheat! I agreed to a year and Dad is okay with that promise." _

There were few entries for several weeks, and then Sara found it. _"I'm pregnant."_

Knowing the statement was coming—somewhere in the journals, the declaration would be made—did not keep a sharp intake of air at reading the actual words. Sara held the page with her thumb as her other hand covered her mouth. She looked at the photograph of an infant—a chubby baby a few months old, she thought. She carefully studied the colored photo—chubby cheeks, a dimple on his chin, fair, curly hair, and bright blue eyes.

Suddenly, her chest tightened; a sob grew, erupting as a choking cry as she held the thirty year old photograph. She had seen another photo so similar to this one it could have been a black and white replica—had seen it dozens of times on the wall at her mother-in-law's home. As her hands covered her face and she cried, the photograph and the journal fell to the table. Her hands twisted into tight fists; air could not pass the constriction in her throat as emotions overwhelmed her and in seconds tears flooded from her eyes. Her fists beat against the surface of the table; her arm swept across the photographs, papers, and journals and sent everything flying onto the floor.

Sounds of anguish—distress, grief, and agony—tore from her lungs as she cried. A glass crashed to the floor. Tears drenched her face; snot ran from her nose, an unrecognizable sound exploded from her mouth as her fists beat against the table. Later, Sara realized she would have been more destructive except for Hank. The dog heard her sudden outburst and sensed her misery and placed a cool, wet nose against her leg, nudging his face between her arm and abdomen.

"Oh, Hank," she whispered. The dog whined. Her arms wrapped around the dog as she slid to the floor and put her face against his warm fur and together, woman and dog curled together on the floor as Sara continued to cry until her eyes could make no more tears. Finally, her eyes closed and she fell into a fitful, restless sleep.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, she woke in a confused, aching state unable to move for a moment until she remembered reading a stranger's story. Wiping damp hair away from her face and crusted tear stains away from her eyes, thinking she had been asleep for a short time, she realized her phone was chirping and vibrating against the table top. She managed to reach the phone, checked caller ID and had four or five messages—all from Greg.

For a few seconds, she thought about ignoring the messages, but she always answered her phone—sort of a constant contact with her friends when her husband was away. Clearing her throat, she pressed Greg's number and called him. She had forgotten to call Nick or Greg to tell them she would not join them at the football field and registered surprise that several hours had passed since she had left the lab.

_A/N: Tell us how we are doing! Thanks for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: A much longer chapter-and earlier than expected-enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 9

Nick glanced at Greg Sanders. "What are you doing?"

"Going to check on Sara."

"D.B. said she wanted the night off."

Greg gathered several evidence bags in his hands. "I've called her three times—no answer. And Sara always answers her phone—always."

Nick shut his kit. "We need to leave all this at the lab."

With a grin on his face, Greg said, "So you think it's odd too."

"Who was the guy in the lobby?"

Greg shook his head. "Don't know. But I think that's why she took the night off."

Sudden alarm crossed Nick's face as he said, "You don't think something's happened?"

"No, not to Grissom. The guy was asking for Grissom."

The two men headed to their vehicle. Nick said, "It'll take Doc Robbins a while, but we have to drop all this stuff off. I'll tell D.B. we're going to get a bite to eat."

Later, as they left the lab, Greg called Sara's number again. "No answer."

In fifteen minutes, the two men were looking up at lighted windows. "She's home—or left the lights on."

Greg pressed Sara's number and listened as the phone went to voicemail, shaking his head to the question on Nick's face. The message he left was "Call me, Sara. I'm worried." When he clipped his phone to his belt, Greg said "I have a key—should we unlock the door."

"Man! How do you have a key to Sara and Grissom's place?" Nick's hands rested on his hips. "I hate to walk in on her and she's asleep."

As Greg was pulling a key out of his wallet, he said, "She'd hear the phone." The words were not out of his mouth before his phone chirped.

"Sara!" He grinned at Nick. "Where are you?" But his grin disappeared and his face quickly turned serious as he said, "What's up? Are you okay?" He held the phone away from his ear so Nick could listen.

Sara said, "I'm okay," her voice hoarse and blurry. "Been asleep."

The two men looked at each other and at the same time shook their heads.

"Nick and I came by to get you—to eat—we're out front."

Greg's phone was silent for too long before Sara said: "I can't go with you guys but thanks."

"We'll wait." Greg, after hearing her voice, was more determined to see her. "What if I use the key and wait until you get dressed." He glanced at Nick. "Nick wants to run some things by you."

There was another long silence before Sara answered. "I'm tired, Greg."

But Greg and Nick had heard the stifled sound of a sob. "We're coming in Sara." The key was in Greg's hand as he took the steps two at a time with Nick following so close behind the two almost collided at the door. It took another few minutes for them to take in the cluttered scene before them. Papers were strewn across the floor. Sara was on the floor between the sofa and table. Hank lifted his head as they entered but knowing the two men, made no effort to greet them other than with a quiet whine. Sara, sitting on the floor, had her head on the low table in front of the sofa; her phone was still in her hand and still connected to Greg's.

Somehow, even though Nick had entered the house behind Greg, he reached Sara first. His arms lifted her to the sofa; his fingers brushed across her face. Greg stepped on broken glass and bent over to pick it up.

Nick whispered, "Hey, darling—what's going on?" Gently, he brushed hair away from her face. "We were worried about you." Turning to Greg, he whispered, "Get some water and towels." When Greg stood motionless, Nick said, "She's cut her hand—there's dried blood."

Finally, Greg moved. He got water to drink and wet a handful of paper towels and hurried back to the sofa. As he had picked up broken glass from the floor, he had seen one familiar piece of paper.

For years, Nick and Greg had respected Sara's privacy. She would tell them what she wanted them to know; they would accept whatever she said and ask few questions. Even after she had returned to Vegas, married to Gil Grissom, they recognized certain boundaries she had in place around her personal life. But tonight, or this morning, her obvious distress changed all of that.

Greg busied himself by picking up everything that was on the floor.

Nick wrapped damp paper towels around a small cut on Sara's hand after he had placed a glass of water to her lips. He asked, "Are you going to tell us what's going on or do we have to figure this out?" He indicated the papers Greg had stacked on the table.

Covering her face with her hands, Sara leaned back on the sofa; her body trembled. Nick placed a hand on her knee. "Is it that bad, Sara?"

Greg coughed quietly and held up the comprehensive DNA report so Nick could see it.

"Is this about Grissom? What's he done?" Nick asked, gently patting Sara's knee.

Sara's palms rubbed her eyes and then she raked fingers through her hair. Her eyes remained closed. "Gil has a son." She made the statement in a hoarse whisper, barely audible, yet both men heard her.

The silence that followed was punctuated by the startled expressions of the two men; they glanced at each other and Greg frowned as he looked at the DNA report.

Nick was the first to recover, asking, "How did you find out, honey?"

Sara opened her eyes, startled and appearing to realize what she had said. Tears welled in her eyes as she waved a hand at the papers Greg had placed on the table.

Nick said, "The man you met in the lobby? He told you this?"

She nodded.

"Sara, you don't know this is true."

Again, she nodded. "Yes, I do, Nick. I talked to him—I knew before he said anything. He looks like Gil—he has Gil's hands." Her voice shook with emotion. "His eyes."

Greg interrupted, "That guy says he's Grissom's son? He could be anybody!"

The sound coming from Sara choked as she balled her fist against her mouth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. A few seconds passed and Nick pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket.

"This is clean," he said as he offered it to Sara. "Can Greg find a couple of beers in the refrigerator?" He looked up at Greg. "And fix her a sandwich, will you?"

Greg headed to the kitchen with Hank following him. Nick moved to sit on the sofa. Placing his arm around Sara, he pulled her into a hug and using his hand, kept her head against his shoulder.

"Sara," he said, "Does Grissom know about this son? Has he kept this a secret from you?"

Her head against his shirt, Sara shook her head. "He doesn't know," her voice trembled before she began to cry; her body went limp against his chest.

"This guy told you he was Grissom's son? Sara, you know people don't always tell the truth! Don't let this upset you before you know for sure."

Sara lifted her face enough to speak. "Nick, it's not that—I know it's true." Her hand went to her mouth as she spoke with such anguish and distress that Nick would not have recognized her voice if he had not held her. "Gil's son—his child—we want a family." With barely a whisper, she continued, "I want a baby—everything we've done and I can't—I can't stay pregnant—and this guy comes in today—I knew—I turned around and saw Gil in this man!" Her quiet crying turned into choking, heartbreaking sobs.

Nick, who had grown up with a family of sisters knew better than to say anything; Sara had just revealed a very private secret, so he patted her back and acknowledged Greg's return with two beers, a sandwich, and a glass of juice. Motioning for Greg to take a seat, Nick pointed at the stack of papers. Greg nodded, able to understand the silent gesture, and began to look through the papers. Quickly, he found a birth certificate and passed it across to Nick.

Attempting to recover from her despair, Sara blew her nose. "I'm sorry, guys," Sara mumbled as she wiped her eyes with her fingers and pulled away from Nick. "I'm sorry—this is not your problem."

Immediately, at the same time, both men exclaimed: "Sara!"

Taking a deep breath, she said, "I should have called you."

"Why don't you tell us what this guy said—what's in all these papers." Nick said as he picked up the birth certificate. Nick was certain Greg had not heard all Sara's words—not about wanting a baby, not about a pregnancy.

Greg handed the juice to Sara and held up the plate with the sandwich. "My specialty—peanut butter and honey."

Sara gave him a weak smile. "Thanks."

Reluctantly at first, Sara recounted the meeting with Martin Andrews and as Nick and Greg asked a few questions, her voice grew stronger. By the time she got to the diaries, she was almost in professional mode. She picked up the photographs and found the one of a small infant.

"Gil's mother has a photograph of him on her wall that looks so much like this baby they could be the same baby—twins, twenty-five years apart. When Martin Andrews talks, he sounds like Gil, makes gestures like Gil. It's uncanny—the longer we talked the more similarities I noticed."

Greg picked up the DNA report. "This is a very sophisticated report—you know I could get Grissom's from the lab—if you want."

"I think you should let him. Put this to rest—either the truth or a lie," Nick said.

Sara wiped a hand across her face. "Could you do it quietly?"

Greg checked the time. "I can. Everyone's getting ready to leave. I can slip in and print Grissom's from the employee data base and no one's the wiser. Especially anyone who gossips."

Without saying a name, they both knew who he meant.

Sara finished her sandwich. "I'm fine—both of you need to go back to work. I've got a few more years of diaries to read," she said.

Nick refused to leave. "I'll wait until Greg returns. I may have to find this Martin Andrews and beat his ass!" He settled against the sofa and swallowed the last of his beer. "Hank needs a walk," he added. "I'll take him out."

Greg left and Nick continued sitting next to Sara. He said, "No secrets, Sara." He took her hand in his. "We've known each other too long. You've helped me out too many times to count—and I love you like a sister—probably more than some of them—what's going on? This guy showing up claiming to be Grissom's son happened a long time ago—what? Grissom would have been in his twenties?" He squeezed her hand. "Does Grissom know how much you want a baby?" He asked softly.

Sara's eyes met his; immediately tears formed. "I've had three miscarriages, Nick." Her lips quivered as she spoke. Nick made a sympathetic sound. "Only the first one lasted into the fourth month—when we were in Paris. Then I came back here and had tests done." She smiled faintly. "Healthy—so we tried again and again. But nothing." Her voice faltered. "And I'm," she made a sad sigh, "I'm getting old."

Chuckling, Nick said, "You're not old, Sara. What does Grissom say? Think?"

"He's so supportive, he really is. He's as puzzled as the doctors—I'm healthy but I can't stay pregnant. And he's been checked—everything works on his end," Sara smiled. "Don't ever tell him, please!

"I've been through two rounds of fertility treatments—that's all we can afford—the last time I was pregnant for eight weeks." She wiped her eyes. "And now this young man shows up—I know he's Gil's son—I know it as surely as I know my name. Gil will know it," her voice broke in a sob.

"Sara," Nick whispered. Suddenly, he realized something. "You think once Grissom knows he has a grown son, he won't—he'll decide he doesn't want another child? Is that what you think?"

She didn't agree, but she did not disagree. "I don't know…"

"Sara, you need to tell Grissom you want a baby—and do everything possible—everything! Like living together all the time and having lots of s-e-x! This guy's grown up and Grissom never got to be a dad to him! He wants to be a dad as much as you want to be a mom!" Nick grinned. "And knowing Grissom, I'll bet he wants a little Sara as much as you want a little Gilbert."

Wiping her eyes, Sara took a deep breath; her mouth started upward in a smile. "I'm sorry; when I read in the journal—it was such a simple statement 'I'm pregnant' and this woman—Martin's mother—wasn't even trying to get pregnant!" A bitter laugh erupted. "She didn't even mention when! Just wrote about bike rides and swimming in the ocean and hiding in a storeroom from Gil's mother!"

Confusion crossed Nick's face. "Miss Betty? Does she know?"

"Oh, no, I'm sure she doesn't. Martin's mother worked for Betty in her art gallery for a short time—that's how she and Gil met. A summer fling, from the sound of it. I don't think she knew she was pregnant when she moved back home."

Nick settled back on the sofa and put his arm around Sara. "We'll figure all this out before Grissom gets home." He chuckled. "And promise me you will have a talk with Grissom—you should have a family—a real one. Maybe twins?" He hugged her. "I can't think of anyone who'd make a better mom than you—what about adoption?"

She shook her head. "Too old."

"Okay—what about that surrogacy thing?"

"Lots of money—it's not free. More than we have—so if I don't have a baby…"

Nick patted her shoulder. "You will, sweetie. Don't give up hope. Not yet." Another soft chuckle, "We might have to visit a cabbage patch and find a perfect little baby! Now, I need to take Hank for a pee walk. Greg should be back here pretty quickly and we'll know the truth."

Sara nodded. "Sorry I got so emotional. Sorry you had to find me like this."

Nick stood. "Sara, we're your friends—we need to know the bad and the good stuff! This," he motioned toward the papers and photographs scattered on the table, "is our mystery. Greg and I are not going to tell anyone. Talk to us; don't keep it inside."

She nodded, "Okay. If you'll walk Hank, I'll get cleaned up. Maybe I can help you with the case."

_A/N: And now Greg and Nick know (a lot!)-be kind to us and leave a comment or two or three! Love all the guesses, suggestions, questions! More to come-and Grissom does get home!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Enjoy-_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 10

Nick walked the dog in circles as he attempted to work out the deep frustration he felt. The longer he walked, the more he recognized an underlying anger rising in his thoughts. By the time Hank had started tugging on his leash, Greg pulled up with DNA results.

"Any problems?" Nick asked.

Greg shook his head. "I saw D.B. and said we'd be back shortly but Doc Robbins doesn't have his report up yet. The feathers are owl feathers," he said, referring to their case. "How's Sara?"

"Better, I think." He kicked the tire of Greg's vehicle. "You know what makes me mad about this whole thing?"

For a few seconds, Greg was taken by surprise by Nick's tone and words. He waited.

"Grissom is off running around the world, doing what he wants to do, and Sara waits here! You know what she wants more than anything? A family—a baby!" Nick paced in front of Greg. "He stays away more than he's here and how's she supposed to have a baby if he's gone!" He stopped in front of Greg. "Did you know any of this?"

Greg shrugged. "I knew she had a miscarriage."

Nick shook his head, unable to believe Greg knew this and he didn't. But he held back from repeating all Sara had said. "And she never told us—that's okay, I understand, but he should be here." He stopped his pacing. "And now she's the one who has to deal with this 'son' who's showed up. It just makes me mad—and I love Grissom—but he needs my boot on his backside for a wake-up call!"

Greg knew his friend and co-worker would eventually calm down. "Sara says she happy."

Nick scoffed. "She says she is! She believes she is—but how's she going to get a baby if her husband is off gallivanting around the world? He should be here! The man lives in one place for twenty years and then gets married and decides to take off to places so remote he calls his wife once a week! And some guy shows up claiming to be a son!"

Holding up the DNA report, Greg said, "Let's find out if he's telling the truth."

As suddenly as his anger had surfaced, Nick calmed. "Yeah, that's what we need to do now." They two men headed toward the door. "But as soon as Grissom returns, I'm going to have a little man-to-man talk with him. Sara's my friend, not just his wife!"

Greg said nothing; he already knew what a comparison of the two DNA reports would reveal. Grissom was going to have one big surprise waiting for him.

A few minutes later, as Sara and Nick watched, Greg's finger traced lines from one report to the other. No doubt existed.

Sara blew out a puff of air. "Well, DNA doesn't lie."

Nick placed his hand on Sara's back. "What do you want us to do?"

"Please don't say anything to anyone about this. Gil needs to know and I can't tell him when we talk or in an email." As she talked, her brown eyes shimmered with new tears.

"No, not a word," Nick said.

Greg agreed, adding "But Sara, you have to tell us what's happening—one of us can go with you when you meet this Martin Andrews again."

For the first time, Sara actually laughed. "I think he's safe, Greg."

Nick asked, "How much longer will Grissom be away?"

"Three weeks more or less. All the waiting was when they arrived," she said with a sigh. "I cannot tell him this when we talk." Looking from Nick to Greg, she added, "Would you want to read this in an email? Or hear it on a live chat? I'll just have to wait."

She offered to go into to work to help with their case, but they refused. "Get some rest, Sara. This has been a shock," Greg said and for the first time, he pulled Sara into a hug. He whispered, "I'm coming back later. Try to sleep."

And even though Sara put a smile on her face, both men left more concerned than either would admit.

Nick drove and within minutes of driving away, he asked, "How'd you know about Sara—about the miscarriage?" He glanced at Greg. "And what else do I not know?"

Greg said nothing for several blocks. Then, very quietly, he said, "I've always loved Sara, Nick. She's always loved Grissom. So when she returned, married to Grissom, I learned to live with it." Softly, he laughed. "Now, I'm a friend—I don't ask questions—not too many, but when Grissom's away, we get together once a week and eat or watch a movie, do something outside of work." He shrugged. "One day she sort of blurted out that she was trying to have a baby—and ended up saying she'd had a miscarriage not long after they got married."

Nick grunted as a reply. He wasn't going to tell everything he had heard from Sara and changed the subject. "What do you think about this guy? Why would his mama keep a secret like that?"

Greg shook his head. "Who knows—he told Sara it was his grandfather and some of those papers were financial records. Looks like the old man had wealth and land." Greg chuckled. "What do you think Grissom's mom is going to think?"

A grin crossed Nick's face. "I'd like to see that!"

They parked in front of the lab and went to work. Hours later, after a significant break involving the feathers, they pointed to a fellow teacher as the prime suspect.

Walking out together, Nick asked, "Are you going to check on Sara?"

_A/N: We don't write Nick very often-how'd we do? More to come! And Grissom gets home soon!_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Another chapter, answering a few more questions-enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 11

Sara did not sleep, but she did take the small journals to her bed. Without coaxing, Hank joined her and placed his head on her leg as she opened the bright orange book, found the statement that had led to her emotional breakdown, and, after taking a deep breath, she continued reading. Quickly, she read through page after page of notes and short narratives about daily household problems and accounts of farm happenings.

Three months after the statement of her pregnancy, Helen Andrews wrote_: "I've told Dad. He looked at me for nearly ten minutes before he said 'I noticed you were putting on weight. Who's the father?' When I told him, he asked what I wanted to do. So it's agreed—we are going to raise the baby here. Dad says it will bring new life to this farm. He said he always wanted more than one child and now he'll have a grandchild. Guess I never thought about returning home like this."_

Sara kept reading, finding few mentions of Helen's pregnancy until seven months and a few weeks after the first mention of pregnancy, Martin's mother wrote: _"Birth was as uncomplicated as pregnancy but I won't be having another! Little Martin—I named him after Dad—has these great blue eyes and silky golden hair—a beautiful baby and not much like me—but I've handed him over to Maria. He cries and wants to nurse all the time, so she's going to nurse him with her own son. It's the funniest sight—to see this little pale baby, so white he's almost transparent, next to a little baby who is as brown as an almond! And Maria is tickled to sit on the porch, nurse one, play with both and nurse again. And I'm back to helping Dad." _

The last entry in the book related the baptismal service for Martin Walker Andrews in the local Catholic church. And folded between the last page and back cover was a copy of the church's certificate. Sara actually smiled as she realized the baby had the same name as his grandfather, with the addition of 'the Second' printed after his name. His grandfather must have been delighted, she thought. There had been no mention of the baby's father—named or implied.

Sara picked up another journal, thumbed through it and found several dates; it covered two years and was devoted to comments about the infant and toddler days of Helen's son, art, music and books, and creative attempts in a farming community. Near the end of the book, Sara found a long narrative and reading it, she found an explanation—the older Martin Andrews wanted a male heir, his name continued—simple, obvious for a man of his age who had one daughter who was a—an art nerd for lack of a better description.

Sara's finger marked the end of the journal. What kind of woman, she thought, would keep a baby a secret from the father? Was it really as simple as an old man wanting desperately to have a male heir? She tried to imagine doing the same thing—and could not. Yet her circumstances had never been those of Helen Andrews.

She might have dozed, or dropped so deeply into her thoughts that minutes ticked by before she realized she was dreaming or thinking—and jerked upright. She wanted to look at the photos again.

Sara got up, returned to the sofa and search through the photographs, found one of a young Helen Andrews—slim with dark hair and eyes, wearing a long skirt and, Sara had to look closely, carrying a large patch work bag with paint brushes and a palette sticking out of it, and on her hip was a small boy with long curls; both smiled at the camera. She flipped through the photos and found another one of the small boy, his grandfather, and a large tractor; the tall man wore a denim shirt and was looking at the camera while the boy looked down. Sara's eyes followed; both men were wearing the same kind of work boots. And the way the little boy had his foot positioned, Sara knew the boots were new. In this photo, the long curls had disappeared. Again, she smiled.

She continued looking at the photographs—seeing a happy little toddler grow into an adolescent skinny boy before he took on an adult's form as a teenager. Several of the photos were school groups and she easily picked out Martin Andrews. She shook her head, amazed at the similarities between her husband and his son.

"How am I going to tell him?" She asked to the empty room. And she wanted to talk to Martin again—not just talk, but get to know the young man. He seemed so sincere and honest; she had not suspected fraud or any level of deceit as they had talked. But she had also been in a state of shock. She picked up the financial papers and flipped through them, found several names and turned on her computer. She could do some checking herself—just to be certain everything was as it seemed.

When Greg called her, she had found the attorney whose name was on the papers.

Answering her phone, she said, "Sure, come over. I'm awake and searching. Did you close the case?"

He promised several things—food, the details of the case, and offered to help her.

An hour later, Sara had confirmation from a lawyer that Martin Andrews was exactly who he said he was; the man had said he was expecting to hear from Dr. Gilbert Grissom, or someone representing him, and provided answers to Sara's questions. He added he had known Helen Andrews all of her life as well.

"She was a good girl, fun-loving, wanted to get away from here—an artist at heart—had no interest in her father's farm until she returned and had Martin. And as far as I know, she never told anyone but her father and son about the—ah—circumstances surrounding Martin's conception. She signed a statement—you should have a copy of it—saying she met Dr. Grissom one summer, had a short affair which resulted in her pregnancy—which was written and signed a short time before her death." The attorney paused a few seconds. "I knew Martin's grandfather well. He was proud of his grandson—one criticism I could make about either would be the one you are dealing with now. Young Martin should have known his father—but Helen would not talk about it. Old man Martin had the son he wanted in his grandson and they did not want to share the boy. I'm sorry for Dr. Grissom—hopefully, he will get to know Martin for what a fine person he is today."

When Sara said nothing, the attorney added, "Mrs. Grissom, Martin is a smart, honest young man. He has spent months—no, years—thinking about his situation and what to do. He's inquisitive but he is extremely polite and respectful. This was not a sudden decision on his part to make contact."

Sara thanked the man and hung up. Greg smiled. "Sounds like he's legit," and then he began to giggle at his words.

"Sorry," he said as he tried to stop his laughter only to break out in snickering giggles again.

Greg's genuine and infectious boyish laugh had always caused Sara to laugh and suddenly, she was laughing with him.

"Greg, what am I supposed to do? Is this really funny or are we punch-drunk from lack of sleep?"

"I'm sorry, Sara. It's not funny—but then I remember thinking that Grissom never looked at a woman—I didn't think he did anyway. And now, a thirty year old son shows up out of the blue." He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. "Okay, serious now. How can I help you?"

Shaking her head, Sara said "I don't know. Gil won't be home for another three weeks. I'm going to call Martin Andrews and meet him somewhere—the diner—or the public library—some nice safe place—and talk to him again."

Greg snickered, covered his mouth trying to suppress his laughter, and said, "Sara, you—you're a step mom now."

In front of Sara was a half-eaten apple. She picked it up and threw it at Greg, hitting his squarely in the forehead.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Your comments and reviews will bring the next chapter to you even faster!_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: We are delighted to have you reading! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 12

Sara did meet Martin Andrews and spent most of the afternoon listening to the young man. She answered questions asked about her husband; Martin told stories of his childhood and described his home as being a happy environment. They talked about his interest in medicine, about Las Vegas, about Sara's work, and Grissom's work. When Sara mentioned Paris, Martin's eyes brightened.

"My mom took me to Paris when I was fifteen! We had a wonderful time—she took photographs and I watched the pretty French girls!"

"Gil was invited to teach. I wandered around the city being a tourist for several months," Sara said, and then laughed. "But I was lost without work to do—even though I loved Paris, I missed having something to do—something familiar—so I returned here to work while Gil taught. He loves the forensic archeology work—he's been able to work all over the world—while I hold down the home front." With a laugh, she added, "It's unconventional but it's worked for us."

Both Sara and Martin realized how easy it was to talk to each other. Martin was learning about his father; Sara was talking about the man she loved and in his son, she caught glimpses of her husband. Yet both had set boundaries—Sara did not ask probing questions about his mother or grandfather. Martin made no queries about her married state. After promising to talk again, she did what she knew best—she went to work.

A few days later, on the other side of the world, Gil Grissom read emails and smiled as Sara's words on the computer screen resonated in his brain as if hearing her voice. In great detail, she wrote about Hank, about shopping for groceries, about a case of a murdered woman who had been found covered with feathers, the murder-suicide of a family. He finished and quickly sent a short email and clicked on the webcam to see if she would answer. As he waited, he scanned the emails again and for the first time realized there had been a long break—more than twenty-four hours—between emails. A simple explanation, he thought, as he tried for a webcam connection a second time. Finally, giving up, but keeping the internet connected, he crawled under fresh, clean sheets and blankets and settled into a real bed for the first time in a week.

He should have been able to sleep—scrubbed clean from a hot shower and in a comfortable bed, rethinking the written words of his wife, actually counting the days before he would see her again—but he turned, restless in the narrow bed. After twenty minutes, he got up and read Sara's emails again. He counted seven emails—one for each day, but the twenty-four hour gap puzzled him. She had written two of the emails a few hours apart. He checked dates and times; it should not be but it was a bothersome break in pattern. Especially for Sara Sidle whose attention to details—he chuckled—rivaled his own.

When he had almost given up on hearing from her, his computer signaled an active webcam and within a minute, he was looking at his wife and both were smiling so broadly that neither one said anything for several seconds.

Grissom spoke first, "I miss you." Softly, he cleared his throat. "Every day."

Three of Sara's fingers went to her lips and she went through the simple motion of blowing a kiss. "I miss you—every hour!"

"It's not much longer and I'll be home." A smile twitched across his face. He had thought about waiting to tell her about his decision, but seeing her face, realizing how much he missed her, he said, "And I'm staying—what would you think if I took a position at UNLV." He heard an audible gasp and watched as Sara's smile grew. "Rare butterflies at Mt. Charleston—the university has a rather large grant to study them and guess who is number one to head up field work?"

The smile breaking across Sara's face made her thoughts obvious. She was speechless and both of them begin to laugh at the same time.

"But what about—what about your…"

He laughed. "After this trip, I'm staying at home, sleeping with my wife—I've decided I'm too old for a tent and a cot and a shower once a week."

Sara wanted to cry with happiness, but managed to maintain a delighted smile. Grissom's news lifted a gloom that had settled over her since she had learned about Martin Andrews and suddenly she could easily laugh as she begin to tell her husband about the odd and ordinary every day happenings in Vegas. Relief flooded through her body as realization came—she had already made the decision not to tell him about his son until he got home—she could break the news of his son and he would be at home, with her, as he got to know Martin.

And then Grissom was talking about the beauty of the desert, the process of uncovering layer after layer of sand to reveal hundreds of years of the unknown past. Suddenly, he asked: "Are you okay?"

"Yes—yes! Just surprised at your decision."

"You look pale—are you sleeping enough?" He asked. He had noticed weariness around her eyes within minutes of their conversation.

Her smile reappeared as she said, "It's work, Gil. A murder a night—sometimes several. We get in and turn around to go to another." Her face brightened. "But, I'm working a lot now so I can have some time off when you get home! Are you sure about the Mt. Charleston research? Butterflies can't be as interesting as finding three hundred year old bugs!"

"I love you, Sara." His voice softened, "It's time I lived with my wife—and we work on our own project." His desire to hold her, to touch her, was so intense his arms actually ached.

At that moment, Hank stuck his nose into view, nuzzling against Sara's face, causing her to giggle. The sound of Sara's lilting laugh as he watched his wife and dog, half a world away, caused an unexpected desire in the center of his chest that quickly traveled downward. Knowing the sensation was caused by their long separation, he placed his hand on the screen, saying "Soon, Sara, soon."

_A/N: The time has come! Grissom is heading home to Sara! Thank you for reading, for your reviews and comments, and especially for letting us know GSR is alive and well! More to come! _


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Need to catch up with Grissom! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 13

It took five days for the research group to close up the dig, meet with local officials for permits to transport a case of artifacts and fossilized insects, and travel to the nearest airport. Weeks ago, the group had made arrangements for a charter flight to Ulan Bator and when Grissom saw the airfield with its collection of brightly colored planes, he thought of butterflies. And only one appeared large enough to hold their group; he hoped the pilot remembered the flight.

As soon as the van stopped, several men appeared wearing blue coveralls; one was the pilot who had flown them in and he was swinging a wrench as long as his leg. Grissom immediately thought 'this can't be good' but after a few minutes trying to follow a conversation in three languages, he figured out the men were working on one of the small planes.

Anticipation and impatience grew as the men packed their bags under the pale blue plane while the ground 'crew' readied the craft for takeoff. As the men climbed into the airplane, Grissom grew a bit nervous as he realized how small it was—ten seats plus the two upfront for the pilot and co-pilot. Then the pilot climbed in and pointed to empty seats with instructions "sit there" and "move there" to distribute their weight. One of the younger men moved to the co-pilot seat.

"I didn't know he was a pilot," Grissom whispered to the man sitting next to him.

"He isn't," was the reply.

Grissom pulled his seat belt tighter.

A few more minutes passed before the plane was speeding down the strip of pavement with the roar of its engines in their ears and seemed to jump into the air like a racehorse taking a fence. Then the plane banked so steeply that Grissom—and the other men—gripped the seat in front of him. The plane climbed rapidly.

Unlike flying in a large commercial jet, in this small plane Grissom could feel the wings lift on the wind which gave him an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. Yet as the plane rose into the sunshine and turned its nose in the direction of their first destination, he felt he was riding on the back of a big dragon fly—scary but exhilarating, like a rollercoaster.

Their first flight took nearly two hours and with the noise of engines there was little likelihood of talking or sleeping; all the men fell into a quiet reverie and Grissom let his thoughts shut out the sound.

He knew he had made the right decision; he wished he had postponed telling Sara until he was with her, but her obvious joy had raised their collective spirits more than he had imagined. As the airplane's engines droned in a steady rhythm, he tried to remember why he had decided to work around the world. Adventure, something different, and, he thought, Sara had enthusiastically supported his pursuit of what had been a spark of interest. After the first trip, things had snowballed until he was going somewhere all the time—South Africa, Peru, Japan, Macedonia, Cameroon—a dozen remote places to look for what had been undiscovered until he had ended up in Mongolia.

Of course, he had told her about the long-ago archeology trip he had not taken and she encouraged him to "do this"—and he had. But he had not really thought he would travel as he did—away for weeks at a time, home for a few weeks or a couple of months, and then off again. And every time he left, his wife would smile, outwardly showing him a brave and steady face, waiting for him when he returned, saying she was happy—and she was. He was convinced she was happy—he had convinced himself they were both happy—and everything she did when he was at home added another layer to their happiness. Only one dark cloud disrupted their contentment.

Yet, in the vast emptiness of the Gobi desert, looking for the most ancient relics on earth, he had realized the truth—he was selfishly afraid, thinking of his own enjoyment, willing to believe Sara when she told him to 'go'. After Sara lost the first baby—a tiny perfectly formed male—and she insisted she wanted to return to Vegas, she had returned alone because he was afraid—of his own feelings, of what might happen. Even after two more lost pregnancies, his fear had driven him away from the person who needed him as much as he needed her. And a few weeks ago, as he tried to stay warm in a small tent, he realized he had left Sara after she had been kidnapped by Natalie Davis and it had taken months to recognize his own fear. By that time Sara had left him. That night, isolated and lonely, had been his eye-opening revelation; fear was driving his life.

Costa Rica had been an idealist dream—every day and every night with Sara. And in Paris they had been romantic, optimistic, believing dreams do come true. Dark rusty stains were the first indications of reality and after that, everything had happened so quickly—one day an expectation and the next—nothing. Sara was the one who was confident of success. He remembered her words, "This happens with a lot of pregnancies—we'll try again." And smiling as she placed her soft lovely hands on his face, said "We know we can do this—we've waited so long!"

And they had—two more times she had been pregnant; each time losing the baby earlier than the previous pregnancy. The doctors had ordered rest—absolutely no attempt at pregnancy for six months. Fear—finally, he recognized it for what it was—fear that the doctor's examinations and testing that failed to accurately find a reason for three failed pregnancies lay inside his body had driven him away from Sara, from home, for this long separation. An unreasonable panic—he knew the science, the biology of reproduction—because for years he had strived to prevent any possibility of an unwanted pregnancy. He could not remember a time when he had been careless—not even with Sara until Costa Rica—and now when he—they—wanted a family, he was afraid, scared beyond words that it was his fault.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the first time an engine faltered. The second time it happened, he snapped out of his daydreaming. The continuous roar altered momentarily, like air trapped in a water pipe, recovered to normal, then changed again. Every man in the plane except the pilot exchanged glances.

"What's going on?" Someone in front of Grissom asked.

Grissom sensed the plane was gradually losing altitude.

The pilot waved a hand in their direction which did nothing to answer the question. Grissom was as confused as his fellow passengers until the pilot yelled, "The airport—down there!"

In the far distance, Grissom could barely make out a city—almost blending into the surrounding countryside as the high sun cast no shadows. Slowly, roads and traffic became visible, buildings took shape, and a long runway appeared.

The audible sighs from passengers seemed to lift the plane a few feet as wheels touched, bounced, and then bumped before staying down. Exiting the small plane took eight minutes—no one said a word as they clambered out of the aircraft, but each silently thankful to be standing on solid ground.

Grissom looked at his watch and thought they had a couple of hours before the next flight. As he picked up his large duffle, an airport official arrived to check papers. The man talked excitedly, looked in a couple of bags, and pointed across the tarmac to a large plane.

"He says that's our plane and we can walk across to it—we have fifteen minutes before it leaves!"

Without another word, each man picked up bags and hiked across the pavement arriving at the gate with five minutes to spare.

If flying in the small blue airplane had been like riding a dragon fly, the second plane was a child's toy car. The seats were tightly fitted, six across, with an aisle fit for a five year old.

"At least there are two pilots," one of the men said.

"And a bathroom."

"And the flight's only an hour."

Grissom pulled his hat over his face and managed to fall asleep before the plane left the runway.

_A/N: On his way home! We want to hear from everyone who has stayed with us-and next chapter: Grissom gets home, well, almost home! Read, review, and chapter 14 shows up quickly! Thanks so much!_


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: **You helped us hit a 'marker' today! A certain number of readers hit on this story and pushed us over a personal goal-so here's the next chapter! And if you haven't reviewed before, we'd love to hear from you!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 14

Grissom's longest flight was nearly sixteen hours, from Seoul, Korea to Los Angeles, on one of the opulent and luxurious airlines that flew across the Pacific providing a level of comfort most people did not know existed in air travel. Grissom was not sure how the arrangements had been made, but as he stretched out in a chair that reclined into an almost horizontal position, he didn't care. He could sleep in comfort, eat three meals, have a last discussion with his fellow researchers, and by the time he arrived in Las Vegas on a late flight from Los Angeles, he would be rested and ready for the rest of his life—a life centered with Sara instead of this on-going living apart. He could think of no reason to regret his decision.

Hours into his flight, Grissom had settled into sleep while in Vegas Sara was packing a small bag as Greg waited.

"We should be back on Thursday," Sara said. "If we decide to stay longer, I'll let you know. And thanks so much, Greg." Sara placed her hand on his shoulder. "For more than just taking care of Hank."

Greg smiled. "Stay away for two weeks—have some fun in California. We'll be fine—worried about you, but I know you can handle it."

She nodded, not admitting that she still had no real plan for announcing the existence of a son to her husband. A few last minute house-cleaning chores kept her busy as Greg put her bag and Hank in his vehicle.

She had met Martin Andrews three times and during each meeting, she had seen more similarities between the young man and her husband. The physical resemblance was uncanny; Martin was several inches taller, slim as an adolescent, but in profile, Sara thought anyone who had known Grissom for a while would recognize a younger version. Martin was talkative, laughed easily, and with sparkling blue eyes, he looked younger than thirty. She wondered about his demeanor in the emergency room—she had not seen him working, not yet. She knew Nick and Greg were hoping a case would get them into the ER while Martin was working. They had both sworn to uphold their promise, but curiosity to see Grissom's son was almost overwhelming and she had reminded them of that promise by assuring them they would meet Martin—soon.

Smoothing covers over the bed, she smiled. The two men had been true friends during the past weeks.

Finally, she was ready; Greg drove her to the airport where she boarded a flight to Los Angeles, arriving several hours before Grissom. Sara had made plans—Grissom would be surprised to see her and learn they would not immediately return to Vegas. She had found a secluded cottage north of LA and rented it for three nights. Grissom would need a few days to unwind, and after nearly two months apart, she knew they needed uninterrupted togetherness. And she had packed the envelope Martin had given her. Not the first day, but she knew her husband would need breathing room when he heard about his son.

The cottage was near the ocean, next to acres of trees in a state park, and the owners had assured her it was quiet, romantic, secluded, and agreed to stock the kitchen with her list of groceries. As soon as Sara was off the plane, she called and re-confirmed the reservation; the woman assured her the drive would be easy and the house was ready, adding it was available for additional days. Sara hoped everything else would be as uncomplicated.

Next, she went to pick up a rental car—and ended up with a mini-van—which she parked as close as she could to the terminal.

In her planning, she had not forgotten Grissom's mother—and she had simply lied by saying Grissom was due back in another week. Sara had visited her mother-in-law before leaving Vegas, would call her every day, and by Thursday, she and Grissom would be back in town. Finding a small table and ordering food, Sara continued thinking about Grissom's mother; she had mixed feelings about Betty Grissom.

Sara knew Betty blamed her for Grissom's absences—a proper wife would be able to keep her husband at home. And a suitable wife would have provided at least one grandchild by now—in Betty's eyes Sara had failed miserably at two important wifely duties—or daughter-in-law obligations. Sara liked to think that she and her mother-in-law were friends on a certain level—but truth be told, she and Betty would have never been even casual acquaintances in a life without Gil Grissom. She stirred the soup she was eating—her life was like this soup, she realized. All the little bits cooking together needed something special to hold them together and make it enjoyable.

Tears formed in her eyes—unfortunately, she knew Martin Andrews was not going to be what was needed. She knew Gil—he would agree to meet his son; he would be congenial, polite, and curious. She imagined the two men talking for hours and eventually forming some kind of bond—cautious friends rather than parent-child.

She wiped fingers across her eyes. Betty Grissom would probably find a way to blame her for the sudden arrival of this unknown grandson! Not for the first time, she wondered about the note left by Helen Andrews for Grissom. Had he received it? Had Betty read the letter? Sara had gone back and read the first journal, deciding that Helen did not know she was pregnant when she moved back to her father's farm. In her own words, Helen had written about being with Gil, but had not made any mention of having sex—Sara had kept a diary for several years, she had read uncounted diaries and journals—and almost every female had a shorthand for certain events—but not Helen. Not even her 'doodles' of dots seemed to provide a clue.

But what if her letter had provided more—mentioning how close she and Gil were—and Betty had chosen to break up a budding relationship. Sara pushed the soup away and picked up her bread, barely tasting it as she ate. Eventually, she wandered around the terminal, found a bench, and pulled a book from her bag. Like Grissom, she had learned poetry and sonnets could move the mind into another realm and several Mexican poets, reading their poems in Spanish, worked her brain in such a way to shift away from her own problems, fears, uncontrollable events.

Finally, the arrival board announced the 'on-time' arrival of Grissom's flight. As Sara waited with a large group, she tried to determine if anyone else was waiting for the men with Grissom. Probably not, she thought, as this would be a stop-over on their way to homes in Chicago and Atlanta and Austin. Dozens of passengers came through the doors from customs before Sara spotted a familiar hat.

_A/N: Not home! But standing within a short reach of each other-and the next chapter is all about getting together! Read, enjoy, review, next chapter up quickly! And the plane didn't crash! We wouldn't harm Grissom!_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: And he's with Sara-enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 15

When Grissom saw the red shirt, he thought it was a look-alike, until his eyes traveled upward to the dark-haired woman wading through the crowd. Sara. She had come. Smiling—beautiful—he whispered her name and, reading his lips, she responded by saying his name as she lifted an arm to wave. And then he could touch her, slowing his pace, which caused people to push against him until he had passed the barrier. Somehow, only seconds, he was out of the crowd, hugging her, and her arms were around him; he heard a soft laugh with her words.

"You're home!" When their lips met, there was no need for further words for several long minutes. There was a familiar, powerful thrill in feeling Sara's warm lips against his that sent a full-throttle punch into his sluggish system, churning his belly and jolting his blood.

Separating with a laugh, they managed the pleasantries of introductions to several of the men Sara did not know and a quick re-acquaintance with three Sara had met previously. Finally, Sara led the way to the parking garage and shared her plans.

"I wanted some time with you," she explained with an enticing smile; her husband's instinct was to follow her any where she led.

And standing in the parking garage, against the mini-van, Grissom threatened to do what he had been dreaming of for at least six weeks. This time he took her in his arms, kissed her lips and smelled the familiar scent rising in his nostrils, as he was overcome with desire so acute he wanted to fold inside her. For long moments they remained locked together, hungry for the feel of each other, appearing as a modern sculpture of two distinguished forms welded together as one. When one of them needed a breath of air, he would cover her face, or throat, or hair with small quick kisses, pausing long enough to gasp for breath.

The rumbling of rolling luggage and the chattering laughter of people nearby brought the realization that they were not alone and caused Sara to back away, finally, as if she hated to do it, a little unsteady on her feet.

When she looked at her husband, she realized he was smiling slightly, a sensual smile that sent a rush of heated awareness through her. She had literally felt the change in his body during their embrace. And the look on his face was one she'd seen on numerous occasions.

"Tell me, dear, where is this cottage?" He asked as he threaded fingers through her hair and then tightened his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her close again so she could feel his erection against her stomach.

"Not far—but yes, it is. About two hours," saying it made Sara grimace.

Grissom laughed as his mouth came down on hers again in a quick kiss. His hand reached around to her butt. "Get in this van and drive, Sara!" He opened the door and helped her inside, giving her another kiss as his hand lingered on her backside.

With one stop for fast food, maintaining a speed well above the limit, and almost constant talking while driving, they made it to the cottage in one hour and fifty minutes. The directions got them to the driveway and as they walked along a stone path to the porch, Sara knew before she entered the house that they were in the right place.

Trees and flowers surrounded the small white house which was situated on an outcrop above the ocean; windows had been opened to the cool breeze and in the quietness they could hear the rush of surf against the narrow beach. On the porch, a swing and two rocking chairs gently moved with the wind. An old fashioned picnic table sat among the trees and from any place on the porch or in the small clearing, there was a view of the ocean.

Grissom had kept his hand on Sara since getting out of the van, and now, he said: "This is perfect, Sara." He pulled her into his arms and her response was to tighten her arms around his neck. The sound of pleasure mingled with the wind as Grissom's tongue slid along the edge of Sara's lower lip, seeking admittance.

All the pent-up and postponed emotions of eight long weeks flowed through their bodies as arms, hands, and fingers moved—fingertips glided down her neck to the front of her shirt, fumbling with the top button. Sara could feel the solid shape growing beneath Grissom's pants.

She managed to murmur, "Too many clothes—the bed—inside," as she attempted to step back.

Instead of letting her go, or even directing her inside the house, Grissom moved his hand down to the snap on her jeans, easily sliding his hand inside. "Oh, God," he whispered, "I want you."

"Gil!" Breathlessly, Sara dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders as warm dampness grew between her legs. The warmth and strength of his hand on her skin as it circled her hips brought her body against him.

His mouth was back on hers and then just below her ear lobe as his fingers slipped lower, caressing and lifting her butt. He held her against his body with his stretched arm, his hand firmly on her butt, while he kissed her deeply until they were breathless.

"Inside," he whispered. "A bed—I've been gone too long."

Sara fumbled twice with the lock box holding the key, mainly because her husband kept kissing her while his hand was between her thighs. Finally, the door was unlocked and swung open, and they were both inside.

Suddenly, Sara was busy—putting their luggage in the closet, checking the bathroom, opening the refrigerator—while Grissom stood in the middle of room and watched.

"Do you want food?" She asked as she opened a kitchen cabinet.

"No," Grissom said. He took several steps and tugged her gently into his arms. "I want you—only you." He kissed her nose. "First, I want a very quick shower—do you think there's room enough for both of us?" His eyes gleamed with desire.

At the touch of his lips, an intense warmth pooled within Sara. The next few minutes were a haze of tender movements and stroking caresses that combined to remove their clothing and inhibitions brought by absence. All Sara felt in the shower was the stirring of her own passion as her husband's hands stroked and kissed her slowly from neck to knees until she moaned against his shoulder. With bodies wet from the shower, they managed to get to the bed—a high, four poster bed set in the middle of a room surrounded on three sides by windows.

Grissom came down beside Sara with a soft exclamation that was half laugh and half groan. "Sara, my dear, I've been gone too long—just the sight of you…"

Sara immediately understood; he had been aroused in the airport parking garage, again when they got to the house, and probably once or twice in the van. Instinctively, she arched herself, opening herself completely to his touch.

"You look good. So sweet and welcoming," Grissom's voice was husky with his passion. His fingers moved over her body, exploring, searching, setting her on fire, as she felt the fullness of his erection against her thigh, nudging against her intimate folds. Gently, he stroked the throbbing bud of desire with his thumb while his fingers glided along her cleft.

Sara wrapped her fingers into his curly hair and reached to caress his engorged penis in her hand.

"No, baby—I can't…" he pulled away, very slightly, and then returned to settle between her legs. As his fingers sought her, a swirl of excitement twisted and turned within Sara and turned her into a writhing storm. Quickly, Grissom realized he was not the only one with postponed passion.

Grissom groaned, his whole body taut in his effort to retain some self-control, as he started to sink into her. His needs seemed to coalesce into blind lust. For a moment, they were still, savoring the feeling, the comforting sense of utter closeness that came from mingling their bodies so intimately. Then one of them began to move, pushing, pulling as waves of pleasure emanated from any place their bodies touched. The taste and feel of her exploded inside him; his mouth bore down on hers until the physical hunger for his wife burst to life. He could not get enough—her mouth, her body moving with his, her gasps and moans—drove him to want more.

Near her ear, Sara heard her husband whisper, "My honey pot." She coiled, convulsed, and clutched at him, drawing him even more deeply into her; her fingers pressed into his shoulders so passionately she left marks on his skin—which she found later—and within seconds his own shuddering climax broke over him. Her eyes opened as he took possession of her; her hands came to his face and she watched as he thrust inside her, lost until he'd emptied himself inside her, his eyes wild and blue.

Several minutes passed before Sara slowly stirred, conscious of a very warm body still connected to her yet sprawled across her. Turning her head, she found Grissom's face nestled next to hers. She slid her foot lazily along his leg and watched his eye lids flutter.

He made a satisfied groan. "Is it always like this? I've forgotten."

Sara giggled and wiggled in his arms. "This is only the beginning, dearest Gil. I intend to keep you in bed, feed you, and enjoy the benefits of marriage until we are kicked out of this place—or Thursday arrives."

He buried his head into her hair, softly laughing. "I may have to sleep a bit."

Sara rolled, her legs straddled his, and she lifted her body above his. "Rest, dear husband. Food is in the refrigerator—most of it prepared—I'll return with a plate shortly." She bent her face to his and kissed him.

He could have floated into oblivion without a murmur of complaint, but the touch of her body, that soft, sensuous body, damp with sweat they had worked up, and smelling of citrus, sex and female, caused him to say: "I'll help if you will pull me out of bed—I may be paralyzed."

Sara laughed. "Stay." Lightly, she touched his face, saying "I've missed you." She kissed him again. "I won't be long—promise." She reached for her shirt and pulled it on, but didn't button it. As she walked into the kitchen, Grissom noticed she had not put on her panties which kept him awake and amused until she returned.

She kept her word, quickly gathering bread, cheese, fruit, and cookies from the groceries she had requested. The owners had stocked the kitchen with everything she had asked for, even providing two bottles of wine.

When she returned to bed, Grissom noticed her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes shining, and when she passed him a glass of wine, letting their fingers touch, he touched her face and pushed her hair behind her ear. Slowly, with eyes open, he kissed her. When he eased back, he said "It's good to kiss you."

They ate, easy, relaxed, laughing and talking about the soft bread or fresh orange or whatever came to mind, but under the effortlessness was excitement, anticipation, that sexual hum of expectation. He wanted to get his hands on her body, have his belly tighten as he felt the growing heat in his groin. At one point, when Sara placed her feet between his legs, his mouth went dry, his mind fuzzy.

She seemed to read his mind, or felt the growing stiffness under the sheet, because she moved the tray of food and set both wine glasses on the side table. She touched him, easily and eagerly.

The feel of her body under his hands, the softness and warmth of smooth skin, the sexy scent of her body—when his mouth came to hers, he tasted surrender and demand, need and desire ; he had all he needed as he let himself go.

He moved over her, stirring little quivers, lighting a fire, and finally taking her hands in his to keep her from arousing him too much, too soon. He wanted to taste her, the long lean line of her body. With his lips, his tongue, his teeth, he stroked, nipped, and roamed over her, into her, and set her wild. Her body grew hot and damp as pleasure flooded her and then churned for more until her body went lax and dazed.

At last, he was inside her, linked, coupled into one. Dropping his forehead to hers, he panted and waited for his head to clear so he would know every sound, every movement, every second of ecstasy. She knew him, held him close as they merged and blurred, as he said her name again and again until his mind closed and consciousness slipped away.

A/N: _Now they are together! Can they keep this up?! Review-more to come!_

_Thank you to everyone who reads, and a special appreciation for your reviews! A-M & Y_


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N:** We've reached another mark! Thanks so much for pushing us over the 5 digit number! And here's the next chapter! Eight weeks apart = lots of s-e-x!_

Deliberate** Decisions**

Chapter 16

Much later, because they had arrived mid-afternoon and now the sun was only a bright ribbon of light across the ocean's horizon, Sara lazily asked, "Are you hungry?" Adding with a laugh, "for food."

"We should eat," his voice was muffled because his mouth was against her throat. "What's available?"

Sara laughed and poked an elbow into his ribs. "Not mutton and no salty milky tea. But lots of fixings for salad. And fruits and there is cake."

"Open a bag and dump stuff out?"

She rolled over, caught his face between her hands, kissed him deeply, and laughed. "How many carrots have you cleaned, Gilbert? We'll eat outside—now, see if we can get out of bed so we can return!"

In a few minutes, Sara was drying lettuce while he was washing carrots. In fifteen minutes, white plates were piled high with three kinds of crisp green and red lettuce, dark green spinach, bright cherry tomatoes, sliced carrots, briny olives, yellow bell peppers, tangy cheese, almonds, sunflower seeds, and topped with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Another few minutes and Grissom drained fusilli pasta, adding peas and grated Asiago cheese, salt and pepper and poured it into two bowls. Sara placed slices of toasted hot bread on a platter and followed Grissom outside.

Knowing what they would do as soon as they had eaten, neither had put on many clothes—Grissom wore boxers and a clean t-shirt, Sara wore a short robe that barely covered her butt.

"This is beautiful, Sara."

She laughed, her eyes dancing, and bit into her bread. "I wanted you all to myself for a little while."

"Is it my mother?" He chuckled as he forked a tomato.

"No, no—Betty and I made our peace. We get along well enough. We've been going to dinner once a week." Laughing, she added, "and we love the same guy." She dived into her salad and ate for a full minute. "I know you'll want to get started with the grant. Everyone you know will be pulling you in different directions as soon as they know you're back. You've been in a desert for eight weeks—I thought a little green wilderness and ocean breeze would be good—different."

"You know you are beautiful."

She wrinkled her forehead in a frown and then laughed just as quickly. "You tell all the women that when you want sex."

They washed the dishes, put things away, slowly, casually, as if they were not hurried. Then Grissom's fingertips touched her knowingly, in exactly the right places, with familiar motions and just the right pressure; and Sara gave herself to him as he slow-danced her to the bed. It was slow, tender, gentle and what she wanted. She moaned softly as her hips begin to move rhythmically; she felt his warm breath on her face.

"Look at me," he said urgently.

She opened her eyes as he continued to caress her, a little faster, his fingers moved inside her, and just as she was losing control, he sank into her. Her hips jerked, she gasped with spasms of pleasure that shook her body; and he smiled as she climaxed, holding her gaze.

As she trembled from sensations that continued to ripple through her body, he said "I love you, Sara. I love you so much."

He closed his eyes, thrust deeply inside her several times before his body shuddered and collapsed. As their bodies quieted, Sara wrapped her arms around him and held him, panting and shaking with emotion, feeling she never wanted to let go.

A few minutes later, Sara took a long loud breath—in and out—and said, "God!"

Grissom's hand lay on her chest and one finger stroked her nipple. "I think I saw Him, just a faint outline for a second and He was smiling."

Sara giggled, "That was me."

"Oh."

She stretched and yawned and curled into his embrace. "Lucky me—I know I saw stars."

He chuckled. "I am sure every man within a hundred mile radius is suddenly feeling," his soft laugh deepened, "very well—satisfied."

Laughing quietly and knowing of Grissom's refusal to use a certain four-letter word, Sara turned in his arms to face him. "I can sleep now."

"Thank you, God!" Grissom said as their legs entwined. His fingers brushed back her hair. "Sara, I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I left you for so long. I promise it won't happen again."

She lifted her lips to his, kissed him, and said, "We're fine, Gil." Her fingertips touched his face. "Whatever happens—we're good. Better than good—great. You know I love you."

He snuggled closer into her arms. "My sweet Sara," he whispered as he felt her lips touch his forehead.

During the night, when the moon brightened the bedroom, Grissom woke, startled for a few seconds, before he remembered. He went to the bathroom and returned to the bed. When his eyes locked on Sara, naked and uncovered, it seemed as if every muscle in his body bunched into a fist. The moonlight made her skin glow—porcelain—delicate white skin carved into curves, her nipples dark spheres, her triangle of hair an enigmatic shadow. He was surprised by a sudden jolt of lust—he was hard in seconds—erect as a flag pole—standing at attention on an empty parade ground.

Sara slept, stretched out like a kitten in the middle of the bed. He watched her sleep for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. He could get back in bed very carefully and let her sleep or he could—he could do what he really wanted to do. He grinned and crawled in bed, hesitating for only a few seconds before reaching for his wife.

Gently, he stroked her arm, letting his fingers glide along soft skin to her neck. In her sleep, Sara's natural response was to move closer to him; his erection radiated heat as he positioned himself between her thighs. Grissom placed a line of kisses where his fingers had stroked her skin; as his mouth came to her neck, he let his tongue touch her soft flesh. Instinctly, Sara's arms circled his chest and back.

She murmured, "Oh, Gil," as his lips met hers and his tongue plunged into her mouth in anticipation of the way he would soon be surging into her body. She pressed herself against him; he could feel her firm breasts and his entire body throbbed with impatience.

He found no resistance when his knee separated her thighs and his hand slid between her legs. His thumb found and parted the soft petals of her sex. In seconds, one finger slid gently into her warmth. Sara's hips lifted in a silent plea for more as his fingers worked inside her.

When her hips arched against his hand, husky words blurted from her mouth, "Now, now! I want you inside me!"

Without saying a word, Grissom rolled above her. He was already beyond speech as something tight and pulsating suddenly released itself, reverberating through his body. He knew Sara convulsed and trembled from head to toe. A part of him was appalled at his haste and clumsiness yet another part of him was running at full throttle. He could think only of possessing her once more and this time he could not contain himself. He put his hands underneath her butt, feeling the moist heat of her as he pushed into her softness. He took one of her nipples between his teeth and bit down with exquisite care as he surged into her tight, hot passage.

He felt Sara's body shiver as her long legs wrapped around his hips. Glittering heat, the scent of Sara's aroused body, the silky touch of her skin caused a jubilant shout as his release swept over him. Several minutes passed before he felt like stirring. When he did, it was only to roll onto his side and gather Sara close to him.

Sara's lips met him with a kiss; she snuggled against him. Within minutes, Grissom heard the soft, regular breathing of sleep. He pulled covers over both of them, placed an arm around Sara, and quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped in a warm cocoon as the moon moved across the night sky.

_A/N: Got a storm named Isaac heading our way. We'll get another chapter posted soon, but in 3-4 days we may take an unwelcomed break. But hang in there, we'll be back with lots more in this story! Thanks so much for reading!_


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: The chapter some of you have been waiting for-enjoy! Tell us what you think!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 17

Sara woke to bright sun and an empty bed—or half of an empty bed. Her hand felt the pillow to find it cool and then she smelled coffee. Quickly, washing her face and rinsing her mouth, she dressed and went into the kitchen. Finding it empty—and coffee in the pot and crumbs from bagels on the counter—she went to the front door. The porch was also empty but sitting on the picnic table was her husband, his back to her as he sat looking at the distant ocean.

She hated to interrupt his peaceful and relaxed mood but if not now, when, she reasoned. And by telling him now, he would have two days and two nights before they left for home—she went into the bedroom and retrieved the thick envelope, selecting several of the photographs. He could see everything later, read everything, but the photos would be a starting point.

After putting the photographs on the picnic table, she placed a hand on Grissom's shoulder as his arm lifted to circle her waist. "You left me," she said.

He chuckled. "You were right to find this place, Sara. It's perfect. I needed this," he pulled her so she was standing between his legs while he remained sitting on top of the table. "I needed you!" He drew her into a tight hug and nuzzled his lips against her neck. "And last night—I was very—very hurried! And this morning—I had to leave you to get some rest!"

She teased, "Did someone really wake me up in the middle of the night?"

The smug look on her face was her answer. "Where's your coffee? I made enough."

Cupping his face with her hands, she leaned to his face and kissed him. Then moving her hands around his neck, letting her fingers play in the long curls, she said "We have things to talk about, Gil. Serious things—not sex," she sighed and tried to laugh, "not us, but…"

"Sara," concern edged into his voice and tightened his muscles under her hands. "Nothing is wrong? Has something happened?"

She pulled away and reached around behind him to get one photograph. "Do you remember an old girlfriend named Helen Andrews?"

Relief relaxed his shoulders as he laughed. "Helen Andrews, Helen Andrews—I haven't remembered her in," he shook his head, "thirty years—is my mother involved in this?"

Turning so her back was to his chest, Sara held the photograph for him to see—a young Helen holding an infant.

"That's Helen—how did you get this?" He took the photograph and turned it over. "Did my mother have this? If she did…"

"Not your mother," Sara whispered. With a deep sigh, she leaned against him and pulled his arms around her as she placed her finger below the infant's face. "He has your eyes, Gil."

For several seconds, no sound, not even an intake of air, passed between them. Sara realized she was holding her breath.

"He's thirty years old," she added.

She felt a puff of air against her neck. "What?" Incredulousness filled his voice. "My eyes—she—this baby—she says he is mine?"

Sara twisted to face him; somehow the photograph was in her hand. "Not Helen—she—she died of cancer—several years ago, but her son—your son, Gil—wants to meet you." She had never seen him so astonished, still as a statue.

His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, yet there was no sound, no words, but a stuttering kind of breathing. Stunned, Sara thought, realizing there was a queasy feeling at the bottom of her stomach.

Grissom had never been in a physical fight—not to know what a gut punch felt like—except he had felt a fist punched into his belly as he comprehended what Sara was saying. She said he had a son—a grown son.

Quickly, Sara decided she needed to talk—explain—softly saying: "He came to the lab looking for you. I was there. While he was talking," she smiled, "and he's very talkative—I—he was familiar—his mannerisms, his hands, the way he turned—and then he looked at me and I saw your eyes." Her hands were back on his face; her fingertips touched his jaw, her thumbs caressed his cheeks.

The expression on his face was one of dazed astonishment. His lips parted as if to speak, but all that came out was a hesitant stammer of air, shallow panting, as if he had run a long way.

Sara continued, "His name is Martin Andrews—his mother never married, never contacted you. She went back to live on her father's farm. He's a physician—came to Vegas to work in one of the hospitals for a month." She closed the space between them as she hugged him. "He wants to meet you, Gil."

Grissom's hand went to his mouth; Sara noticed his trembling fingers, immediately remembering only once before had she seen his fingers do the same thing. She closed her hand around his, leaned over and kissed his fingertips.

He could not breathe as he tried to grasp Sara's words about the photograph. Sara said this child was his, a boy, a grown man, in Vegas. She said she had talked to him. The images in the photograph dimmed, swimming before his eyes; there was a mild buzzing in his head. None of this made any sense. Helen Andrews—a name he had not remembered until Sara showed him the picture and in an instant he had remembered the smiling girl's name as one recalls a childhood address or a long-ago professor's name—or a brief girlfriend, as Helen had been. He seemed to choke on air; his mind formed words he could not say.

And Sara hugged him, held his hand, kissed him, said the name of his son—a son who wanted to meet him. Her long, cool fingers were on his face, touching his hand as her lips touched his fingers. And then her soft hands and those elegant fingers he loved so much were brushing through his hair, pulling his head against her chest. And she was whispering.

"I love you, Gil."

He realized he had done nothing in his life to deserve her and somehow that fact washed through him, the knowledge that she loved him. Her love was like a sun inside him, shining strong and warm. He knew the science of the body, but at this moment his heart ached, literally ached with sweetness and goodness at its center because of his wife, and that recognition smothered out his panic.

And he breathed.

Sara was raining kisses over his hair, his face, murmuring, "its okay, honey. It's okay." She framed his face with her hands. "It's okay." A worried smile on her face, she was keenly aware of the shock she had just given him. "There is a lot for you to read—Helen kept journals for years. When Martin set out to find you, he gathered a collection of photographs and documents—even had a DNA test done—so you could learn about him before you actually met."

"I didn't know." Grissom finally found words could be formed and spoken. His eyes cleared so that he could clearly see Sara, the trees around them; he could feel the breeze on his skin. "I didn't know."

Sara smiled again. He saw understanding and compassion in her eyes—and something else, something new.

"You know this is true," he whispered, half of the words choked in this throat.

She nodded. "I knew, Gil. He's your son—I knew before he told me." Softly, she chuckled. "Surprised us both, I think. I knew and he realized I knew and the first words out of his mouth were 'I don't want to cause problems'—he is so much like you!"

For the first time, he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. Grissom raked his fingers through his hair. "It's been so long—I barely remember her, Sara." He shook his head. "We," he moved his finger between them, "we have been honest about our—our past, but Helen Andrews—I don't think—I don't remember—one summer—we saw each other for a few weeks. She was working for my mother and—I can't even remember why I was at home." He lifted his eyes to Sara's searching for an answer.

She kept her hands on his face. "You don't have to remember everything—or tell me everything! Martin—named after his grandfather—is a polite, considerate young man. He found your photograph on line several years ago," she smiled, "and he said he knew who he looked like."

"She never contacted me, Sara. I would have done the right thing—I would have been responsible," his voice was plaintive, distressed.

For several long minutes, Sara cradled him in her arms, kissing him before releasing him. She said, "You'll read the journals. Martin's mother did not try to contact you. She left a letter with your mother—do you remember it? I think she and her father wanted a child, a grandchild, and for whatever reason, decided not to contact you."

Grissom nodded his head. "I think I remember—she did. She did write me a letter—a note really. Saying nothing—'it's been fun. Have a good life'—Sara, we didn't love each other—we had sex." He shook his head. "And I don't even remember it—maybe I do—we spent a lot of time on the beach playing around and got—got into…" He shook his head. "And you believe this boy is my son?"

Certainty reflected in her voice, Sara said, "I don't think Helen—the sex did not seem to be a big thing—or she didn't write it in her journal—when you had sex. And—yes, I know Martin is your son. DNA doesn't lie—and he had an extensive test done." Taking a deep breath, she rushed into the next difficult issue. "This was a surprise to me—I've had three weeks to get used to the idea of being—of being a step-mother—but Nick and Greg walked in when I was—I wasn't handling some of this very well."

His eyes met hers in a moment of regret. "I'm so sorry, Sara—sorry I wasn't there."

She waved her hand. "They know—I blurted it out—that you had a son. That you didn't know about him. I'm sorry."

Grissom understood her anguish, and he had not been there. "Oh, no, honey!" He hugged her. "I wasn't there—I understand—I do."

"Greg compared Martin's DNA test with yours in the department files—quietly and carefully, no one else knows—there is no doubt. They were both so sweet about everything—even offered to go with me to meet Martin."

Pulling her into his arms, he hugged her again. "I should have been there, Sara. I'm sorry—this—I'm stunned—totally out of nowhere—a son. I can't comprehend why his mother didn't contact me. And you've met him?" His brain was trying to make sense out of this baffling conversation.

Sara told him about Martin Andrews—as an adult. He would read about Martin as a child in the journals, see the photographs. "He's wealthy—Martin is. His grandfather's farm is leased; he never had much interest in farming except to please his grandfather." She had moved to sit beside Grissom as she talked about his son; their fingers laced together as the photographs were passed between them.

"Did he have a good childhood? A happy one?" Grissom asked, studying one of the photographs of a school-age boy.

"He did—he says he did. He says he didn't really think about not having a dad until he went to school. His mother refused to give him your name until she knew she was dying."

His fingers clinched in her hands and for the first time, Sara realized his anger was rising. He reached for his cup, tasted the cold coffee, and spat it out. He released her hand, stood up, and turned in a full circle, his left hand wiping through his hair. Fingers of his right hand curled into a fist. After several minutes, he jammed both hands into his pockets. His breathing was rough; a flush of color washed across his face.

"I need to think," he muttered as he abruptly headed to the house.

Sara waited several minutes before gathering the photographs and following him. She was unsure the source of his anger, but as he had walked away, she had glimpsed the person who had avoided her for years. She saw his shirt on the floor and heard the shower. Walking into the bathroom, she found Grissom sitting on the toilet lid. He looked up at her with confused eyes. He said, "I don't know what to do."

She pushed the shower door open and motioned him in before she pulled her shirt over her head. He stepped into the hot water, letting it pour over him. He knew—felt—Sara was in the shower with him. He stayed with arms braced on tile, his head down, eyes shut. "You don't want to be with me right now, Sara."

Sara slid her arms around him, pressed her naked body to his so he jerked straight. "I'll tell you something, Gil, I don't like being shut out—being left because you don't know what to do."

He turned in her arms, clasped his hands over hers, before pushing her to arms length. "Don't," he said. "Just—just—I'm not the person you think I am." His eyes had turned to cold flint yet behind the blue sparks, she saw hurt, confusion, the humbleness of the unknown.

Deliberately she looked down and then smiled as she looked up at his face. "Seems to be a contradiction here." She made her voice low, attempting to hide her conflicted feelings, attempting to make him smile.

"I never meant to hurt you." He pulled her toward him, so that warm, wet body collided with his, so he could find her mouth.

She clamped around him, hooking arms up his back so her fingers could dig into his shoulders, nails biting flesh. Heat, not from anger but from passion, pumped out of her and seared through Grissom's skin until the cold line of anger dissolved. When she kissed him it was an invitation and the sound she made simmered against his lips in erotic triumph. Thoughts that had formed and fought in his brain dissipated.

"I'll always love you, Gil, always have—always will."

Her voice was like a soothing song, and he let her console him, using her hands, her lips, her flesh, let her think she was guiding him. When he pushed her back to the shower wall, her eyes sharpened and brightened with surprise and when she started to smile, he crushed his mouth to hers.

As he kissed her, he ran a hand over her breasts in long, teasing strokes that made her nipples ache. A heated flame grew, running up her spine, as his hand moved between her legs, sliding, gliding, bringing her to the cusp of orgasm. When his fingers dipped inside her, she was ready; something like a razor-edged pleasure took up the growing flame. He went into her, driving her past the point she could hold her passion, past the point she thought she could bear it. Her breath sobbed with erotic excitement as water poured over her shaking body, steam blurring her vision.

When her orgasm burst, burning, blazing, consuming, seeming to rip a line between sanity and madness, he muffled her scream with his mouth.

"Say my name," he said. He had to hear it, to know she knew who was setting her on fire. "Say my name, look at me," he ordered as he hoisted her by the hips and buried himself inside her again and again.

"Gil, Gil, Gil." She looked into his eyes and saw him, the man he was, the child he had been, and, last, she saw the wonder-filled blue eyes of the person she loved more than life itself.

He took her, took her, took her until he was empty, until he was sore and limp; her head dropped on his shoulder from exhaustion. He had to brace his hand on the wall to catch his breath, fumbling to turn off the shower.

"I need to lie down," she whispered, the words raw in her throat. "I really need the bed."

Surprising himself, he boosted her up, half carrying her over his shoulder, grabbing a couple of towels as he managed to haul her to the bed. Sara slipped, still slick with water, out of his arms onto the bed. Grissom took one of the towels and begin to dry her off, but she waved him off and patted the empty space beside her. The weight of his body shook the bed as he settled next to her. Sara said nothing but wrapped her arms around him, nestled close, and began to stroke his hair with her fingers.

The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was bedcovers being tucked around him and the scent of Sara—clean, blameless, tender, and unshakable.

_A/N: And thank you for reading! Love to hear from you!_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: And another one! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 18

Sara might have slept—it was easy to fall asleep and wake with that miasma of spent energy, feeling loose after sex—and she didn't mind lying in bed, in the quiet, looking at the white painted wood paneling of the ceiling with her husband beside her. They had never had enough of this—could never get enough of each other—just the two with nothing between them.

She turned her head slightly so she could see Grissom. His hair was mostly white now, grown long, naturally curly. In sleep, his face had relaxed, calmed, the creases of anger smoothed away from his eyes. Naked as the day he was born, the warmth of his body—skin to skin—kept her still. He had almost lost control, she thought; a rare anger had emanated from his body as he walked away from her. And almost without thinking, she had followed him uncertain of the outcome.

In the shower, their lovemaking had been heated by his rage yet she knew her own desire, the trust she placed in him, had been part of melting that fury. She wanted him when he had not wanted himself—something beyond trust stirred between them. And now he slept in comfort and she would not move for fear of waking him.

Her eyes traveled around the bedroom—a room furnished for their purpose and for hundreds of others before them and those to come after they left. The high bed made up with fresh smelling, soft sheets, a thick coverlet of blue, a chaise lounge, and a low chest of white wood appeared new yet scrubbed—just enough to be home-like. A large garden painting, brilliantly colorful and comforting, hung above the chest. Windows on three sides—easily opened to catch the breeze—added to the brightness of the pale yellow on the walls.

Grissom shifted in his sleep and Sara took advantage of his movements to slip out of bed placing pillows against his back. She quietly moved around the bedroom, getting dressed, and taking the packet of information about Martin to the dining room table. She neatly stacked the journals, the photographs, the financial papers, and wills in an orderly row. Then she crossed into the kitchen and began to prepare food.

She could cook without thinking about what she was doing—rice into water, vegetables cut up for stir-fry, apples sliced and covered with sugar, butter, and cinnamon to bake. So her thoughts turned to Grissom. His anger must have been directed at Martin's mother and grandfather—what else would have made him react as he did, she thought. He had been interested, curious, asking questions about Martin—but she could not remember—when she noticed the rising fury. She stopped chopping the vegetables, the knife in her hand, standing still as she traced back to her words.

Martin's mother had died—now she remembered saying Martin had not learned his father's name until his mother was dying. Sara wasn't sure how that statement had caused his sudden anger; she made a humorless laugh. It was all very unexpected, she thought, as she remembered how she had cried—had a major melt-down, she corrected her thoughts; but she had buried her own misery after that day. And Grissom would do the same. His anger was certainly justified, but it would be quieted once he woke—and then—he would meet Martin Andrews.

She lifted her hand and wiped her eyes with her wrist trying to stop her mind from leaping to what they had not talked about, to what she hoped—wanted—Grissom to mention. Quietly, she sniffed—pushing her emotions back into the hidden corner—her husband had not been back for twenty-four hours and she was already tearful. She sniffed again and reached for a paper towel.

Grissom woke to an unusual emptiness—the room was filled with dappled sunlight and every surface seemed to reflect a soft, agreeable light. He got up, found clean clothes, and listened for the sounds of his wife. It did not take long for him to realize the house was empty. He glanced at the dining room table, not surprised at Sara's methodical work. He saw where she had been working in the kitchen, checked the oven and turned it off, then turned and quietly walked to the door.

Sara was on the porch, sitting in the gently swaying swing. Her hair was tied up showing the long curve of her neck. He was captivated looking at her, at her tapering hands, at her dark hair framing her face; her brown eyes, her beautiful compassionate eyes. But there was weariness, a trace of sadness, in the way her hand moved across her face and in an instant, he knew she had been crying.

"My beautiful wife," he said as he stepped onto the porch.

Quickly, her expression changed as a smile broke across her face. Her hand patted the space beside her. "I thought you were going to sleep the day away."

He sat beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I want to apologize, Sara. For earlier—I should not have—I was not gentle with you…"

Sara's hand went to his shirt, her fingers played with a button. When she spoke, he knew there was a smile on her face. "Don't, Gil. You did nothing," a quiet giggle slipped out. "I think there was a mutual enjoyment from both of us." She lifted her head from his shoulder. "And I think I remembered someone carrying me to the bed!"

He took his thumb and wiped the corner of her eye. "You've been crying."

Quickly, she said, "Onions, I was cutting onions." She covered his hand with hers and smiled. "I came outside for fresh air."

He pushed the swing with his foot, starting it on a slow arc, and kept pushing until the swing was making a fast sweep, back and forth. Sara stretched her legs straight and lifted her face to the wind. Grissom tightened his grip on her shoulders and placed his hand across her belly.

"Honey, I know onions have never caused you to cry." He felt the softness of her stomach constrict under his hand. He stopped pushing the swing, letting is gradually slow. "Is it Martin? Or is it—"his voice ended in a whisper. "Or is it what we have not talked about?" The swing slowed, almost to a stop.

Her lower lip quivered but she did not speak. She took a heaving breath and wrapped her fingers around his. In a very faint voice, she said "You have a son, Gil."

"Oh…" confused, he did not know what to say, and suddenly, he was fighting tears and it took him a moment. He looked at the trees, the ocean in the distance as he blinked rapidly. Realization slapped him as hard as a physical palm against his cheek. "Yes, I have a son—a son I do not know. I barely knew his mother, Sara." He turned to her, placing hands on her shoulders, and seeing the blood pulsing along her throat, moved his hands to her face and kissed her slowly, lovingly. The way of things, so definitely sweet, he thought.

As she had talked about Martin Andrews earlier in the day, now he talked about them—he and Sara. He told her of the hours he had stayed awake thinking about them—about her, about a family—"us, Sara, having a baby—maybe two. I grew up an only child and I always liked the idea of having a sister or a brother. This is my fault—I waited too long," he kept his fingers on her face. "All those years when—you are right—I didn't know what to do—I wouldn't make a decision—about us." He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "But it is not too late—there is a lot we have not done."

When Sara's mouth opened, he placed fingers against her lips to keep her from speaking. He said, "My mother has six Picasso etchings—not much larger than a sheet of paper. For years she's tried to give them to me—she keeps them underneath her bed. She can't stand the things but she wants me to hang them in our house—or my office or do something with them."

Sara's puzzled eyes made him laugh. "We're going to sell those etchings, Sara. They are worth something—Mother has always said they were valuable—and that's how we'll pay for another round of fertility treatments. And if that doesn't work—we'll try for surrogacy or private adoption." As Sara's mouth dropped open, he added, "We'll get our family—our baby, Sara. You are the only woman I've ever loved—the only woman I've wanted to be the mother of my children."

Slowly, Sara recovered from the surprising revelation of her husband's words. "You would ask your mother for that? Do you think she would agree?" Her voice trembled as she asked.

"She will. I think she'll be delighted to—to help make this happen." Grissom said as he smiled. "I know she's wanted a grandbaby for—oh, I think a couple of decades might cover it." He leaned over and kissed her. "I had to find the right woman," he winked and grinned.

Sara was staring at him; she took a ragged breath. Grissom could hear her heart beating, could see the steady pulsating point on her neck. Her face softened.

"You would do that for me?"

"Oh, honey," he wanted to kiss her, to make love with her, right on the porch or anywhere else, but the smell of baking apples quickly dominated other thoughts.

Sara jumped from the swing. "The apples! They'll be burned!"

"I turned the oven off—they are fine!" He clapped his hands together. "And I'm hungry!"

_A/N: Thanks for reading! More to come! Reviews make the writers post the next chapter quickly! _


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: A new chapter for the weekend! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 19

Their lunch was simple and delicious with the warm apple slices topped with ice cream for dessert and at least a dozen times Grissom bragged on the her cooking, planning ahead so they did not have to leave the cottage. However, they did leave the house after eating, following a trail that meandered through the forest and down the steep embankment to the ocean. The wind picked up as they stepped onto the beach but it did not keep Sara from removing her shoes and running into the water's edge.

They threw driftwood and rocks into the surf, found tide pools brimming with tiny creatures, and when Grissom lifted a soft-bodied nudibranch in his hands, Sara shrieked with delight at its bright orange color. Finding themselves alone on the isolated beach, tired from their hike, and pleasantly warmed by the sun, they sat on rocks and watched as little crabs scurried across their bare feet.

Sara wiggled her toes and sent a little hermit crab scurrying. "What will your mother think about Martin?" She asked.

Grissom shrugged. "What will I think of him? I can't think how I will tell her." He lifted an eyebrow. "Any suggestions, wife?"

Sara shook her head; both laughed, and laughed again when they realized Martin Andrews was no longer a worrisome or awkward topic of conversation between them, deciding it was better to postpone any discussion of Grissom's son for a while.

Much later, Grissom looked at the sun. "We need to head back," Grissom said, looking up, unable to see the cottage from the beach. He pulled Sara to her feet and they climbed over rocks and found the trail. Twice they stopped and looked back at the sea.

Grissom assured her, "We'll come back tomorrow—for the entire day if you want. Bring food with us."

The rest of the way they locked arms and walked together, talking about nothing important—dangling vines, a bug found on a leaf, the shape of clouds—and stopping often so they could kiss and laugh. Once inside the house, both seemed to find renewed energy. After Grissom fixed fruity cold drinks, he turned to see Sara removing her clothes. Gesturing for her to stop, he slowly took them off of her, pulling her shirt over her head and pushing her jeans to her ankles, throwing them across the room as she kicked off her shoes.

With adoring eyes sparkling with desire, he covered her breasts with his hands, gently massaging, stroking, lifting as he circled each nipple with a thumb. Immediately, her nipples were firm and taut and when his lips touched her neck, she leaned her head back to expose her throat. His lips tracked down until they came to her nipple; he nibbled gently and she groaned with pleasure.

Quickly, they were on the bed, both of them breathing like sprinters after a short race. Grissom almost lost control when Sara's palms slid along his thighs as she pushed his pants away. She pushed him to the bed, and sensing that is what she wanted, he remained on his back. His erect penis free, sticking up like a rocket on a launch pad. A sensuous smile played across her lips as she stared at it; her hand drawn to the swollen male symbol of potency. Leaning over, she kissed its tip. Her slender fingers wrapped around his shaft; gripping firmly she pushed down, then eased her grasp for the upward stroke.

By the third stroke, Grissom was breathing hard and reached for her, pulling her to his chest. His hand moved, exploring, finding her wet. His finger stroked the sensitive, swollen bud as he guided himself into her. Almost at the same time, their bodies seemed to shudder with spasms of pleasure, prolonging their initial intimate connection. But he slowed his actions deliberately drawing out her orgasm as she reached its cusp; twice her felt her convulsive waves surround his penis, and the third time, he plunged into the roaring whirlpool with her until his mind was filled with nothing but her and her warm silky flesh, moist and bare; until his brain was filled with the scent of a fragrance he could not name—other than to name it "Sara."

They slept for hours and when they woke, it was a gradual waking, a stirring of one body caused a shifting of the other. Wiggling toes, a stretch of legs, and they were both laughing, running hands over each other.

Grissom laughed, "I can't do this again—I need a serious rest! At least for a few hours—I may have to sleep on the sofa tonight!" The sound of Sara's laugh was an aphrodisiac to his libido; he tamped it down. His thighs ached, his groin ached—he thought he might need an ice pack.

Hugging her tightly, he said, "Seriously, I think I might have sheet burn on my knees, blisters on my toes," he kissed her. "Definitely been away too long!"

"Rest," Sara insisted. "I'll fix a pizza and salad for us." She kissed his nose and got out of bed, throwing the same short robe on that she had worn earlier.

He followed. "I'll help." He flipped covers back in an attempt to find his boxers. "Wasn't I wearing underwear?"

Sara tossed him a clean pair from her bag. "Brought extra," she said with a laugh.

Later, they sat across the table from each other while he looked at the photographs of Martin and thumbed through the journals.

"Tell me what she wrote."

Sara picked up the orange one. "Honestly, not much. Somewhere between riding bikes, going to a movie, playing on the beach, you two had sex." She giggled. "Maybe in the back room of Betty's art gallery?"

His eyes lifted from the financial papers in his hand. A smirk crossed his lips and then he chuckled softly. "Maybe I do remember that—but no, we didn't have sex anywhere near my mother! She may be deaf but her nose is keen." He motioned to the papers in his hand. "He's wealthy—even without the land, his grandfather made some very financial rewarding investments."

Later, they ended up sitting together on the sofa. Sara found and read passages from Helen Andrews' journals pertaining to events in Martin's life before picking up a book she was reading. For a long time, they sat quietly; one of the things Grissom devoutly loved about his wife was that they could sit like this for hours. Yet he never felt alone, he thought as he reached for her hand.

He closed the journal he had been thumbing through, sighing and asked, "Do you think she was the maternal type? Whatever that means?"

"I think she loved her son. She took care to see that he was independent—that her father did not completely rule his life." Her finger slid along his arm. "I think you need to meet him alone," she said. "I'll go with you—or be at home—nearby."

He squeezed her hand and picked up one of the journals. "I don't think I can read all of these, Sara."

"You don't have to, Gil. When you meet Martin, you will be—astonished—in a good way." She took the journal and placed it on the table.

They did not talk about Martin or his mother's diaries or how Grissom would tell his mother anymore. Finally, Sara stood, pulling him up, and led him into the bathroom where they showered—separately, quickly—and dressed for bed.

In the quiet darkness, they slept—relaxed and undisturbed, fulfilled and content, quickly, soundly, moving together if one turned or rolled, they slept wrapped in covers as the salty ocean breeze kept them cool.

_A/N: A peaceful day-more to come! Thanks so much for reading and those great reviews! _


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: And another short chapter before leaving for home! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 20

The next day was idyllic; the air was cool, the sky was clear, and a light breeze ruffled the surf into long white ribbons.

"A perfect day for the beach!" Grissom had announced before Sara had gotten out of bed. He was dangling a silver chain between his fingers. "I forgot all about this." As he loosened his fingers, a single stone pendant, surrounded by elegant filigree, dropped in front of Sara's eyes. "It's an amethyst," he explained as Sara picked it up.

"Gil, it's beautiful!" Her fingers touched the intense purple stone.

He told her about finding it after he had arrived in Mongolia—the week spent waiting for permits had given the group many hours to do nothing but walk the streets. "I found a little shop where fifteen to twenty women make jewelry to sell to tourists. When I saw this, I knew it belonged to you." He clasped it around her neck and ran his fingers along the chain until he came to the pendant resting at her cleavage.

Leaning over he kissed her soft skin. "I've always had a weakness for this spot." He moved his lips an inch, "and this spot." And kept repeating his words until they became a murmur and he was doing more kissing and less talking.

Sara stretched her bare arms and naked legs. "What about those toe blisters?" She asked with a laugh.

She got a humming sound as an answer as she felt cool lips against the inside of her thighs; a few seconds later when he blew a soft breath of air and touched her with the tip of his tongue, she forgot about blisters and anything else as her hips literally lifted off the bed.

The taste of her exploded inside him as his tongue flicked against the rose petal softness inside her folds. He fingered the small sensitive bud and felt the warm wet fluid of her passion. She arched again as heat raked through her body and cried out as erotic pleasure sent a licking flame up her spine. She rolled, pulling at him eagerly, panting with every breath.

His male lust had returned after a night's rest; he wanted to consume, to ravish her. He worked his way up her and down, over, and around her and finally inside her.

Sara closed her eyes and relished the sensation of feeling her husband's pleasure on her body, the arousing feeling of his hard penis moving as he moved; his hands on her butt, holding her against his groin as he lifted her up and centered her on his erection. When he entered her, she felt him going in and out, was conscious of her clitoris being pressed and massaged gently by his thumb as waves built to orgasm. Her entire body thrilled with pleasure as she felt him surge and jerk, and then her climax shook them both as he became still and she slumped to his chest.

By mid-morning Sara had packed food for lunch while Grissom had—Sara wasn't sure what he had done. He had glanced at Martin's papers but most of them had been pushed back into the envelope. He had spent time on the porch with her and had followed her into the kitchen while she made sandwiches. And now that she had lunch packed—sandwiches, apples and oranges, slices of cake, and bottles of water—he had suddenly disappeared. She did not see him outside, not on the porch or at the picnic table.

She called, "Gil! Are you ready?" And just then he appeared at the corner of the house.

"I found these—the little building near the driveway—cooler, chairs, an umbrella—even a little wagon to haul everything!" He was beaming as if he had found gold.

The rest of the day idled by—they walked to the beach, found a rock protected sandy spot, rested in the chairs, and spent hours in a generally lazy manner. Before the sun set, they climbed back up to the cottage and decided to drive into the nearest town for dinner.

Half-dozen restaurants lined the main street; two were well-known chains, so Sara picked the local Mexican one.

"Beans, rice, cheese—always a vegetarian selection," Sara said, laughing as she got out of the van.

Grissom closed the door, "We should buy one of these—lots of room."

Sara shot him a questioning glance, but said nothing.

Later, back in the cottage, Grissom pushed a DVD into the player—a 1948 classic film noir.

"How many times have you seen this?" Sara asked as she let Grissom slid in place behind her.

"I don't know—classic gangster movie and the good guy wins," Grissom said as he settled Sara between his legs.

She opened the book she had brought with her. "I'll read and catch the good parts."

Twenty minutes into the movie, Sara felt Grissom's hand drop into her lap. She smiled and kept reading until a few minutes before the end of the movie when the bad guys and the good guy were on a boat. She wiggled and coughed and Grissom opened his eyes and yawned, seeing the final scenes of the movie.

"I always love this movie—the ending is evil incarnate versus the force for good and Bogart wins!" He started moving. "I'm stiff from sitting in one place."

Sara rolled forward, stood and pulled him up. "We'll need to leave before noon, dear."

For a while they remained together, arms wrapped around the other; Sara's head lay on his shoulder. He could feel her breasts under her thin shirt. Silently, they walked into the bedroom, removed their clothes, and came together in a tangle of kisses and nuzzling touches.

Grissom caressed her naked body, whispering, "I love you more every day, Sara." The sound he made was more growl than laugh. "I loved you the first minute I saw you. You knew it."

Sara laughed and drew her leg up so his hand had complete access to her.

"All the years between, I loved you—stubborn, mulish, and pigheaded I was."

Sara ruffled his hair with her fingers. "I love you. You love me." She pulled his face to hers and began to kiss him. She raked her palms up his back. "I expect you to ring the big bell tonight, dear. Last night in our romantic little cottage—all that sort of thing."

This time his laugh was a definite growl. "I'll ring the big bell and all the little ones on the way up. You'll think you are back in Paris hearing the bells of Notre Dame."

Then his teeth nibbled along her shoulder and his fingers played between her thighs. He moved slowly, teased, tantalized, and rewarded as she responded to his attentions. At some point, Sara soared into oblivion; bells definitely rang as wave after wave of an ecstasy tsunami swept through her body, and as she regained some degree of awareness, she heard Grissom say:

"I do believe I rang Emmanuel."

_A/N: And who knows this bell? Thank for reading! More to come!_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Here's the chapter some have been waiting for-and since we all know Grissom!, hopefully we've written the chapter you wanted! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 21

Flying into Las Vegas always took Sara's breath. The magnificent colorings of the mountains ringing the city could be truly appreciated from the air and they did make the city appear as a child's model. A modern day citadel, Sara thought, the tall buildings of the strip set in place of a palace, the spreading grid of suburban sprawl the tenants bowing in service.

She smiled when Grissom took her hand as the airplane descended. "Good to be home, at last," he said.

And home pulled him in a dozen directions. Greg picked them up at the curb and spent an hour with them before leaving. Hank was waiting at home, dancing on four paws when Grissom entered, and appeared torn between which person to follow.

Grissom tapped out a message to his mother, announcing his earlier than expected arrival, and promising to see her before nightfall. There was an eight-week backlog of mail, magazines and journals, several research articles for his review, unsolicited projects from hopeful authors and, by the time he had shifted all of it from one stack into several, Sara appeared at the door of his office.

"It's almost time to visit Betty."

He nodded. "Going with me?"

She shook her head. "You know she wants your undivided attention today," she kissed him. "I'll take Hank for a long walk—and be here when you return."

Sara wanted to contact Martin, but she waited. When Grissom returned from visiting his mother, she raised her concern. "Unless he extends his contract, he has a week left in Vegas."

Grissom was nervous; he paced the kitchen as Sara prepared dinner. "When do you go back to work?"

"End of the week."

He was quiet for a while but kept pacing until Sara said: "Sit down, dear." She put two plates on the small table. "Hank is anxious." The dog was in his bed, but his head moved back and forth watching Grissom. She smiled as he sat down and tousled his hair. "What did your mother say about these curls?"

"She asked if I was growing a pony-tail." Sara sat across from him and picked up her fork. He continued, "She has the Picasso etchings—I didn't tell her, just ask if she still wanted to give them to me." He reached across the table and took Sara's hand. "We'll tell her together."

She turned her hand to grasp his, silently agreeing.

The next morning he placed Martin's envelope on the same table. "Will you call him, Sara? Maybe invite him to come here?" His voice shook with emotion, "I want you to be with me—not—not waiting in another room. Maybe not here—maybe a neutral place. Not the diner—what about here?" Lines of worry creased his face.

Sara stood and wrapped her arms around him. "It's the right thing to do, Gil. He's a good man—in his eyes I see yours—the same questioning uncertainty that I saw in yours once."

Martin Andrews had been waiting to hear from Sara and quickly agreed to a meeting. "Any place—I'm working nights, so any time between six and six." He agreed when she suggested a time the next day, and Sara asked if he would come to their home. She heard excitement in his voice as he agreed.

He said, "Thank you, Sara. I'm excited but nervous. I'm afraid to ask," she heard a familiar uneasy chuckle from him. "Is he okay?"

She assured him, "He's fine, Martin. You two are going to have a lot to talk about—we'll see you tomorrow."

The next morning, Grissom changed his shirt four times before deciding on a blue one. As he brushed his hair he said "I should have gotten a haircut."

"You look good—great. Don't worry about your hair," Sara said as she ran fingers through his yet-to-be tamed curls, tousling a few as she did. "I like this look!"

"You don't think he's on a fishing expedition—that he wants something?"

Sara had listened patiently to Grissom's speculations all morning, giving no opinion nor trying to provide answers. She had busied herself preparing a vegetable platter and cutting up fruit, fully expecting neither man to eat much. She heard the arrival of Martin before he rang the doorbell and opened the door as his finger pressed the bell.

The young man had obviously spent as much time and care as Grissom on his dress—his hair was combed back, he wore a casual knit shirt and a dark blazer, and the lace-up athletic shoes he had worn when he met Sara had been replaced by expensive leather slip-ons. Smiling with relief when she opened the door, he placed a large bouquet of flowers in Sara's hands before saying a word.

"Thank you for arranging this," he said with carefully chosen words.

Sara stepped back, "Come in."

Grissom was standing at her elbow. He stepped forward, extending his hand and clasping the hand of his son for the first time. Sara had never had a doubt that Martin Andrews was her husband's son and if Grissom had any lingering doubts, it vanished as the young man stepped into the house.

In seconds, Sara realized the two men recognized a younger and older version of himself. Unconsciously, they embodied the form and features of each other. Their right hands remained together in a hand shake much longer than normal; the left hand of each man unconsciously lifted to touch their forehead and then rake fingers through hair. Each smiled, immediately, kindly.

Sara watched, fascinated, as tears pricked her eyes. Regardless of what she might think of Martin's mother, the first meeting of father and son was a miracle at any age.

Grissom spoke first, "Thank you for coming—I'm grateful you've come." His voice was deep, unaffected by earlier emotions. He extended his arm. "Come in—come in. We have much to talk about."

Martin had no one to confide in or to share his excitement, and seeing his father for the first time, living and breathing, standing in the same room with him, shook him more than he had expected. Sara had been correct in saying they had the same eyes—yet the easy demeanor, the quick smile, the invitation extended—were a surprise. He smiled, barely able to breathe.

They moved inside the house—a condo in a large building Martin thought had been something else in another decade—and it was almost more than he could take in and quickly sat down on the sofa. He wanted to make a favorable impression, but he was so excited he could barely think.

Grissom settled back in his chair, asking "Did you have any problems finding us—the address, I mean?"

Martin replied, too hastily, "No, GPS—in the car." Nervously, placing his fingertips together, he leaned forward, "Thank you for seeing me, sir. I—I know you—you had to be—surprised—about me." His voice was unsteady.

His father, the man he did not know, leaned forward so they were eye-to-eye with a low table separating them. He smiled, "Thank you for finding me—I had no idea but I—I do remember your mother."

"Sir, I…" Martin stopped when he realized he had interrupted Grissom.

"Call me Grissom—everyone but my wife and my mother calls me Grissom."

For the first time, Martin noticed the blue eyes were filled with a contagious humor, the white hair reflected his own unruly, brown curls across the crown. And the cleft in the chin—instinctively Martin fingered his chin at the familiar mirror image.

Grissom chuckled. "We have a lot in common, don't we?" He leaned back. "Tell me about your work in the ER here. How do you like Vegas?"

Within minutes, Martin was talking, easily, about his work and with a few questions from Grissom, he talked about extending his contract with the hospital; more questions and he was telling Grissom about his college and medical school years. And Grissom was talking about working as a coroner, about his work in the crime lab, and his recent travels.

Sara remained on the periphery of the two men's conversation. She listened to the nervous beginning, heard Grissom's soft laugh, and when Martin and Grissom were talking about Vegas, she poured coffee in cups and took it to the table.

Two pairs of identical blue eyes looked up at her with the same expression on each face. And then Martin stood.

"Thank you, Sara." The young man extended his hand. "I know you've made this possible—thank you."

_A/N: And thanks for reading! This story will be 25 chapters-much coming up! Thanks for reading!_


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Another chapter some of you have been waiting for-Betty Grissom! Enjoy!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 22

Sara drove; Grissom was deep in thought.

"We could postpone this—I mean, eat with Betty but you don't have to tell her about Martin." She placed her hand on his knee as she stopped at a traffic light.

"No, I want her to meet him. He is going to extend his contract at the hospital so, hopefully, we can spend some time together." He raked a hand over his face. "Sara, this is hard for me—my mother has always—I know she's always put me on a pedestal. I'm almost afraid to tell her this."

"Show her the photographs—she'll know, Gil."

He took her hand. "First, we'll talk about us—I want to tell her our plans first. And while she's excited about that news, I'll figure out a way to tell her about Martin."

Grissom had been pleased after meeting Martin. He never said the words, but Sara knew he had been happy, relieved, to find the young man as she had described him. When Grissom had talked about the Mt. Charleston project and Martin expressed an interest in seeing the place, they had made plans.

Sara held Grissom's hand as she continued driving. "Your mother will be surprised—probably shocked—and she'll want to meet him. What she won't understand is the secrecy—why didn't Helen ever contact you."

He shook his head, "I think it's as you said, they didn't want to share him. His grandfather had money, his mother provided an heir—by accident, I think." He pulled a photograph out of a folder on his lap and looked at it. "I barely remember this girl, Sara."

Sara had already wondered if Betty Grissom would remember a young woman who worked less than three months in her art gallery.

She glanced at her husband. "Get the worried look off your face, dear. Your mother is going to think the worse—whatever that might be."

He smiled. "She's going to be thrilled when I tell her why we want the etchings."

After lunch, while Sara cleared the table, Grissom told his mother he wanted to sell the etchings. Sara kept her eyes on Betty as she signed. Grissom beckoned for Sara to return to the table.

He signed, "We want to start a family."

Betty's face brightened as she smiled; she made a 'whoop' sound and clapped her hands. Reaching across, she took Sara's hand and whispered, "A baby!"

Grissom interrupted, signing with his hand between the fingers of his left hand. When his mother looked at him, he signed, saying "Sara is in good health." He paused as his mother glanced at Sara. "She has been pregnant. More than once." He looked at his wife who gave a slight nod of her head. "We lost a baby in Paris. And Sara has had two miscarriages since then." His mother gasped, looked at Sara with teary, compassionate eyes.

Betty formed the word "Sorry" and tightened her hand around Sara's.

Grissom continued. "We've used insurance and paid for testing, but we need more testing—maybe some expensive procedures. More options. It is expensive."

Betty threw up both her hands, signed "Stop," and when Grissom did so, she signed "Take the etchings. Or let me sell them. I know who to talk to and get a good price. I have three other good paintings. You can have them." Her fingers had moved so quickly that Sara lost the conversation; Grissom translated. Betty's hands folded over her chest for a minute. Then she continued signing, "Anything I have is yours." She smiled. "A grandchild. I had almost given up hope."

Sara and Grissom celebrated with his mother when she brought out a bottle of wine with dessert. Even after Sara told her it might be months before they would have a baby, "It might take a long time," Betty continued to smile.

"We—I have something else, Mother—unexpected news." Grissom signed to his mother, leading her to her sofa.

"You have given me what I wanted. You will be living here and soon I'll have a grandbaby. I know it will happen." Betty signed; she kept smiling and at every opportunity, she had hugged Sara or her son.

Grissom sat across from his mother and reached for the photographs he had placed there earlier. Sara sat next to Betty. Rapidly, Grissom signed, "This is one of the most difficult things I've ever had to tell you." He pulled one photograph out and slid it across the coffee table for his mother to see. It was the same one Sara had shown him.

Betty glanced at it and looked at Grissom; her face questioning.

"Do you remember the summer Helen Andrews worked for you? That's her in the photo."

She picked the picture up then, looking closely at the young woman. Slowly, she shook her head and frowned.

Grissom continued signing, "She worked for you one summer when I was at home. I was about twenty-five. I can't remember why I was living at home for a few weeks."

Betty's expression changed; thoughtfully, she placed fingers on either side of her forehead, thinking. Then she signed, "You moved. Your new place flooded a few weeks after you moved in." She pointed to the photo. "This girl worked for me then. A few weeks. I remember finding you two," she glanced at Sara, put her fingers to her lips then moved her hand downward "naughty", before she continued signing, "in the storeroom one afternoon."

Grissom nodded. To Sara's eyes, he looked utterly miserable. She reached for the photograph of Helen and looked at her husband. A silent message passed between them. Grissom dropped his head when Sara pointed to the infant in the photo.

Betty turned to face Sara; uncertainty and confusion clouded her eyes.

Carefully, Sara signed "This baby is Gil's son. He is thirty years old now and he would like to meet his grandmother."

For several long moments, Betty kept her eyes on Sara and then looked at Grissom before taking the photo. Her trembling hand went to her mouth. She took a shaky breath before handing the picture back to Sara. When she cleared her throat, Grissom looked up.

Long ago, Betty Grissom had given up speaking in public; occasionally, she would say a few words, and now she said "Good heavens," in a whisper; catching her breath, she added "When can we meet him?"

"I didn't know," Grissom whispered; realizing his mother might not have understood, his hands begin to sign.

Betty patted Sara's shoulder before slipping an arm around her daughter-in-law. Pulling away, she signed "Are you okay?" Sara nodded. Betty got up and moved to her son. When he stood, she hugged him tightly and then held him at arm's length. "Tell me," she whispered. Her hands flew with sign language.

Sara suppressed a laugh and smiled when she figured out what her mother-in-law was furiously signing: "That girl should have told you she was having your baby. I do not appreciate this. What kind of woman does this? Where does she live? I want to talk to her. After I meet my grandson."

Grissom calmed her down by opening the file with additional photographs, telling her Martin's mother and grandfather were dead, and by signing a snippet of a poem—something they had done when he was a child—and made her laugh.

The photographs were placed on the table and Sara quickly shuffled them into chronological order. The one of an infant who looked so much like her son brought another audible gasp from Betty as she stared intently at it.

"He looks just like you as a baby," signed Betty.

She was quiet as Grissom explained Martin's arrival in town, how Sara met him and, when he returned, Grissom met him. She was immediately impressed when told how Martin had planned to meet his father, providing documents and photographs, that the young man was a physician, and when asked what Grissom thought of him, her son said:

"I like him."

She looked at Sara.

"So do I. You will like him. He is a lot like Gil."

Tearfully, Betty picked up a photograph of a young Martin and shook her head. Looking first at her son and then turning to Sara, she signed, "I want to meet him."

_A/N: What her son likes, so does the mom! How'd we write Betty's reaction? Thanks for reading, a special thank you to those who review!_


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Another chapter, two more to go to this story's end! Thanks for reading!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 23

Several days passed before Sara and Betty could arrange a small party; Grissom had been opposed until his mother pointed out with her usual sense of decorum that more people at the table meant more conversation. Martin, unfamiliar with sign language, would have others to talk with at the party, and, as Betty explained, the young man would not be stuck with an old lady carefully checking him out.

Nick and Greg were the first ones invited; then Grissom invited Jim Brass and bluntly told him the reason for the gathering.

Brass snorted and laughed, "A son—by a girl you can't remember! Only you, Gil!"

"Are you coming?"

"I wouldn't miss meeting this guy for all the rice in China. I'll be there—early!"

With several fruit pies and a layer cake on the counter, Sara placed all the other foods on the kitchen island in an effort to make this a casual gathering. She and Betty had worked together to prepare a vegetable casserole, macaroni and cheese, a platter of fresh fruits, three salads large enough to serve a dozen large appetites, and several loaves of hot bread.

The invited guests arrived early and came in together. Nick whispered a few words to Sara, and then immediately went to Betty and began to use his budding sign language skills. Brass, smiling like a Cheshire cat, and Grissom, who had been somewhat morose about this party, headed for the liquor cabinet.

"You okay? How'd you arrange this?" Greg whispered to Sara.

She nodded and grinned. "Betty's idea—she thought it would be better to meet Martin with others. So—you and Nick already knew. Gil told Jim, and now we'll all have dinner together. And try to act—normal!"

Greg made a face. Sara stuck her tongue out and both laughed.

"Tell us something about old Vegas," she suggested. "Gil can translate for his mother. I'll make sure everyone is eating."

Greg agreed, "I have a good one," he promised.

"And break the party up, please," Sara asked. "Gil and Betty should have some time alone with Martin—this is the ice-breaker."

A few minutes later, Martin arrived. And despite Sara's efforts to make this an informal party, the men lined up and shook his hand, as solemn as stones as they were introduced.

Unusually timid, her hands nervously fidgeting, Betty stood beside Sara until the initial introductions between the men were done. Grissom stepped toward his mother, saying, "Mother, this is Martin."

Betty, taking the young man's hand between both of hers, spoke in a very carefully practiced voice. With grace and dignity befitting a lady of her generation, she said, quietly, emotionally, "Welcome to our family, Martin."

Visibility, Martin was moved as he breathed a sigh of relief and smiled—a smile exactly like Grissom's.

Immediately, as if it had been pre-arranged, Jim Brass was pouring and Grissom was passing an aperitif to everyone. As everyone drank the sparkling wine and Sara passed a tray of hot hors d'oeuvres, a few questions were asked regarding Martin's work which led to a transition to Grissom's new research project. Brass made a corny joke about dead butterflies which caused laughter and lightened the initial tension. As the group relaxed and moved toward the dining area, conversations broke off, circled back, started anew in a bantering, good-natured way.

Sara served food to everyone, keeping an eye on Betty who was fascinated by her new-found grandson. She knew Betty was intensely studying every movement, every feature of the young man. Grissom was signing as Greg captivated everyone with a story of Block 16 and the Air Force's roll in shutting down the notorious prostitution and gambling area of the city by placing it off-limits to military personnel.

The friends at the table easily included Martin in their conversations, complimenting Sara and Betty on the food as they finished. As Sara requested, Greg began to make noises about leaving as soon as dessert was finished; on cue, Nick and Brass did the same and within minutes, they were gone.

Grissom asked Martin to stay a while longer and while Sara cleaned up, Grissom, Betty and Martin talked about Martin's childhood, about growing up on a farm, about his career choice, and asked about his health—specifically about his hearing—both relieved to learn he had always had excellent hearing.

Sara joined them bringing coffee and the conversation turned to her when Martin asked where she had grown up.

"Around San Francisco," she said and from her comment, Martin talked about his love of the city and time he had spent working in several hospitals as a medical student with the others adding their own experiences in the city.

He mentioned his mother and grandfather in a positive manner, never indicating frustration with either of them for keeping him from knowing his father.

When Martin left, as Grissom and Betty walked him to his car, the realization hit Sara. She had once thought if she had a child—the baby she wanted—would have no other relatives, and she had worried what would happen if—if something happened to either of them or to both of them. And now her child—the one she knew she would have now that her husband was home to stay—would have a brother; much older, and who would probably marry and have his own children one day. Her child would not be alone, never be left on his own and suddenly, it all make sense to her. Martin Andrews had a new purpose in life—she smiled as her husband and his mother watched the young man drive away—and he was not even aware of it.

A week later, Sara sat in an examining room, her mouth open in surprise, as her physician said for the second time, "No doubt about it, Sara. You are pregnant—very pregnant." The doctor smiled. "Maybe the best fertility drug is a long absence!"

"What are the chances?" Sara asked, fear in her voice. "How often do you see this—a fourth pregnancy that—that is successful? When it happens like this."

The doctor took Sara's hand. "Miracles happen—whether you believe in them or not. Let's cross that bridge if we have to—later." She smiled. "And where's your husband today?"

"I didn't think he needed to come today," she sniffed. "I was afraid of bad news." When the doctor's eyes lifted in an unspoken question, Sara added, "I thought it might be early menopause."

"You are a long way from menopause! This is good news. Come back in two weeks and we'll check everything. Bring Dr. Grissom."

_A/N: With 2 more chapters to go, we'd love to hear from anyone who has been reading this story! So hit a few keys and send a reviewHow'd we do with this story? this topic?) Thank you to those very kind people who read and review!_


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: While this is a sad chapter, we hope you will read and review-and you know we will end with a happy chapter._

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 24

Sara and Grissom lived in a haze for days; she returned to work. All too aware of her history, Sara refused to tell anyone, but Grissom was elated.

"This is right, Sara! I know it is!" He danced around the kitchen twisting his hips and hugging Sara. "All that sex—after eight weeks—I was loaded!" He strutted around the house unable to suppress his smile.

"A rooster," Sara said as she smiled, grateful for his excitement.

"I'm going to tell Mother," he said, "she is going to be thrilled."

"Please wait, Gil." The stress in her voice caused him to drop the phone. "Until we see the doctor again. We'll know more."

As a diversion, Grissom dived into a research project developed by someone else, attempting to catch up on rare butterflies as quickly as possible. Several times, they ate with Martin, took him on driving tours of Red Rocks and Hoover Dam, and somewhat surprised, quickly developed a promising friendship. Martin's excitement about his work, about Vegas, telling Grissom and Sara about his life helped the two weeks pass.

On the day of her appointment, early in the afternoon, Sara lay on an examining table while the physician passed an ultrasound device over her abdomen; on the third attempt, she turned the screen so Sara and Grissom could not see it.

"It's over, isn't it," Sara stated, her voice as empty as her body felt.

Grissom's head dropped to her shoulder, somehow he found her hand. He could barely breathe, but his thoughts were on Sara as a deep sob erupted.

As a fertility practice, the physician and her staff were no strangers to the grief of couples who lost hopes and dreams, especially those with repeated failures. Quietly, they were taken to a comfortable room, someone brought in tea and for awhile, no one interrupted.

"I knew it, Gil. There is something wrong with me," Sara sobbed, heartbroken, crying more than he could recall.

Grissom let her cry, unable to keep his own tears from joining hers, keeping his arms around her and muttering words meant to comfort, words that meant nothing to a woman pulled into the dark. Pain, grief, and guilt coalesced into a gaping void.

The dark surrounded her, sucked at her like mud, pulling her into a bottomless pit, always dark, black as night, warm blood on her fingers, confusing her even more. She was helpless, unable to stop falling; she shivered. Her teeth were chattering. She tried to say something but all she could hear was a low moaning.

Finally, she heard a beloved voice, whispering her name. Strong arms, powerful hands held her, reached for her, pulling her from this hollow abyss.

"Gil," she rasped. The fingers of hopelessness plucked at her; easier, so much easier to give in and sink into the dark. She tried to focus on his face—his blue eyes, intense, gentle, brimming with tears—as she attempted to stop crying. His hands—soft and soothing—were on her face, wiping her tears.

At some point, more tea was brought in; Sara managed to taste the hot beverage, suddenly too tired for tea, too tired to throw it away. Lifting her head, she said: "Let's go, Gil." She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"The doctor wants to talk with us."

Sara shook her head; her face was pale, eyes red from crying. "Not today—I don't think I can hear it." She got up, gathered her jacket, and reached for his hand. "I need to be at home."

She walked out of the building, her brain registering some activity going on behind her, and in the car, Grissom said nothing; he held her hand. He helped her out of the car and when she indicated the bathroom, he walked with her. She was ill, violently vomiting, while her husband held her hair and wiped her face with cold water. But she did not cry.

She stripped, and running the water cold, stepped into the shower, letting it stream over her until some of the haziness in her head cleared. Only when her mind cleared did she realize Grissom was in the shower with her, leaning against the tiles watching her. Suddenly, she knew she was not alone; this was not a loss only to her. She stumbled as she fell into his arms.

In the darkness of their bedroom, their distress and disappointment waned to a level they could accept as they held each other in shared sorrow. Numbly, they had dried each other; Grissom had found pajamas for her, soft and warm. In the quiet, because they did not require conversation, they begin a sort of recovery.

Much later, Sara whispered, "I'm forty, Gil. I'm not sure a baby is going to happen for us."

They were already in each other's arms but if possible, Grissom held her closer. "We've only begun, Sara. This was a surprise—for both of us, I think. There are more tests, there are—things we haven't tried."

"I don't know if I can go through all of it," Sara whispered.

"Sara, perhaps it's not you—it—it may be me."

Sara was silent for so long, he continued, "I—I'm going in next week to get tested—genetic testing—more than sperm motility and sperm count."

Sara touched her lips to his cheek. "I love you, Gil."

Slowly, there was healing as day passed into night, as the sun rose and set, as they returned to work, as they gradually grew strong enough to think of the future, and the day they laughed—something mundane that neither could remember a few hours later—Sara led him to bed where they lay together as Grissom read to her until she slept. When she woke, she felt warm fingers on her neck and opening her eyes, she found the cerulean eyes she loved so much. Delicately, he brushed a fingertip along her eyebrow, her eyelid, her nose. And when she smiled, lovingly, he placed his lips on her cheek. Her lips parted to his as her body remembered and responded. His mouth moved over her bare body as his hands undressed her.

Weeks later, Grissom walked along a trail accompanied by his son. He continued to be amazed at the young man's personality and the ease they had become friends. They talked when they had something to say and, today, they walked without saying much at all. Martin had been a frequent visitor in their home; he often went with Grissom to Mt. Charleston, curious about the research and enjoying the time away from the injuries, sickness, and death of the emergency room.

On one of these outings, Grissom disclosed their desire for children "at my old age, I'd like to have the experience—of—of childhood—seeing my child grow—as a father."

Martin easily accepted his father's desire, saying, "I understand," and laughed. "I think I'd enjoy a brother—or a sister—and Sara will make a wonderful mother."

Today, Grissom revealed the results of extensive genetic testing. "It's me, Martin. I've waited too long—there are chromosome defects—age defects—that make it almost impossible for me to father healthy children."

"What about Sara?"

Grissom walked from the thickly wooded trees into a meadow blooming with wildflowers. "I haven't told her yet." He glanced back at Martin. "I don't know what to say—how to say something like this."

"Well, there are other ways to have a family."

The two men dropped backpacks and pulled out water bottles. Grissom grunted as he sat on the ground. "Ironic as it is, Sara is healthy—the fertility physicians say she is 'super-fertile'—you ever heard of that?"

Martin shook his head. "I don't work with that part of medicine in the ER."

Grissom chuckled, miserably. "It's when a woman's body will allow a non-viable embryo to implant long enough to show up as a pregnancy. Put that in with my defective sperm and she's having pregnancy after pregnancy, miscarriage after miscarriage." He sighed and wiped his face.

Taking a long swallow of water, Martin silently watched dozens of butterflies across the field. He glanced at the man who had accepted the news of a grown son without fear, without hesitation; his father, the man he had known such a short time, who was usually so animated, so excited, with more energy than men half his age, but today, he was lost, despondent.

Martin said, "The day we had dinner at your house—the first time I met my grandmother—there were five men at your table, including me. And at some point during dinner, I realized every man there—me included—was in love with your wife."

Startled, Grissom looked up. Softly, he laughed as he realized the intuitive perception of the man sitting beside him.

"Don't tell me you don't know this! She only has eyes for you!" Martin laughed. "Every time I'm with you I know it's because of Sara. I would have never gotten to meet you, welcomed into your home, if she had not approved—I know this is true—and because of her, I've gotten to know my father—my grandmother. A void in my life is filled. And I'll do all I can to help Sara be a mother—and you a dad."

Grissom stared, unsure of what Martin meant. At Martin's next words, he actually dropped the bottle of water.

A/N:_ Thank you...and the last chapter soon!_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: we could have written a hundred chapters for this story before ending-but, real life gets in the way! Hope you enjoy the ending-let us know! And-no, its not what some of you thought. Even in fanfic there is a 'eck' factor where we won't go! ENJOY!_

**Deliberate Decisions**

Chapter 25

When Grissom presented the results of his extensive testing to his wife—along with possible treatments—Sara hesitated for three days before agreeing with his plan, which she would later learn was actually Martin's idea. Involving another person in their very intimate problems was almost more than she could accept and then Grissom and Martin brought in the scientific research for the procedure. She spent several days pouring over articles, research projects, and results and listening to Martin's recommendations.

"We'll go," she agreed. Even then she was undecided about accepting Martin's assistance—until he mentioned knowing one of the female physicians in the prestigious, and expensive, clinic—and decided there might be another reason he wanted to visit San Francisco.

_Six months later_, the physician laughed softly and ordered Sara to breathe. "Everything is fine, Sara! Every test is good." The sonogram wand glided across Sara's still flat belly.

"We were both throwing up this morning," Grissom grunted.

The physician laughed, "Sympathy morning sickness." She turned the screen so Sara and Grissom could see it. "This is great. What do you see?"

Sara gripped her husband's fingers so hard he thought they might crack under pressure, and then he forgot about pain as he saw the image—the images on the screen—as two little bean shaped forms floated and somersaulted and filled the monitor.

_Almost seven months later_, a few weeks before the expected date, Sara delivered, easily, a daughter with a thatch of dark hair on her perfectly round head. The baby gurgled and cooed, but never cried, which predicted an easy-going future. A few minutes later, before she and Grissom had time to finish their careful scrutiny of the baby girl, a son arrived, wailing within seconds of his birth, turning red and letting the world know he had arrived—which only predicted his temperament at the time, not for his future. Then each parent had a baby to hold and neither seemed to notice anything else, including the young man who slipped into the delivery room.

Quietly, Martin asked, "Is there room for one more in here?"

Soon after, someone took a photograph of the new family as the younger man and the new mother held babies while the older man hugged his wife and held up two fingers for the photographer; everyone smiled proudly.

_Epilogue—a few years later_

_Early morning…_

Sara knew her husband had been up and returned to bed. "Where are they?" She asked, sleepily, her head deep within a pillow in an attempt to shut out the early morning sunlight.

Grissom slid between expensive sheets, reached his arms around his wife and pulled her into a tight hug. "With Martin and Greg."

Sara rolled, softly giggling as she touched the warm naked body beside her. "Did you comb her hair?" Her arms slipped around his back so her hands held his shoulders. "No fair! You brushed your teeth."

"She's fine. They are going to breakfast." He wiggled his hips and nudged a knee between her legs. "We have at least an hour—McDonalds and a playground." His lips touched the curve of her neck. "And we're all alone—just us, in a hotel room," his voice hummed against Sara's skin. He kissed her so deeply that she tasted the minty flavor of his tongue against hers—kissed her for so long that she forgot to breathe until she had to break away for a breath and by then her mouth was as minty as her husband's.

Another laugh came from Sara. "Somehow I don't think Martin ever imagined his wedding day breakfast would be spent with little kids—his brother and sister."

Grissom chuckled easily. "They planned this—Martin said all the women would be sleeping late, you included, so they are fine." His hands found the edge of her shirt. "This is getting in my way."

Slowly, gently, with deliberate ease, passion sparked and flamed between the two. Finally, Sara was naked against him, her nipples like dark rose petals against soft velvet skin. Grissom covered her with kisses and heard a deep growl come from his chest. They sank together on the bed, nestling close, caressing, stroking, cradling each other as the crescendo of passions built and exploded into climaxes moments apart. And in its aftermath, quietly, gently, as two people deeply in love, they talked of events that had led to this day—a bright, sunny, beautiful day—perfect for a wedding.

_The same day, a few hours later…_

Sara had not been this excited—or this apprehensive—at her own wedding. Of course, that one had been a very simple civil ceremony compared to this lavish three-day affair. A large white tent sheltered tables, chairs, a dance floor, and a band stage. Away from the tent, on a knoll overlooking one of the most beautiful and recognized skylines in the world, guests were seated in rows of white chairs as a small string ensemble played music selected by the bride and groom.

Making sure that her mother-in-law was seated in the front row, Sara turned around and found the groom—her stepson, almost as handsome as her husband had been on their wedding day—who was in a solemn conversation with the ring bearer. Her husband stood next to the groom, smiling and looking extremely pleased with himself, his hand proudly on the shoulders of both his sons. His smile grew as the groom placed two rings in a large seashell the child was holding. Sara knew the rings were fake ones, but the expression on the little boy's face was serious as he heard instructions from his older brother.

Brothers—Sara smiled—more than brothers, she thought, because her children worshiped their older brother, Martin, with adoring passion. As she looked at her husband, his grown son, and the small boy, the family resemblance was striking; obvious from their blue eyes and curly hair to the shape of their hands and the quirky gait of their walk. Sara was not, had never been, very religious, but there was a sacred relationship between the three—proving that age made no difference in the love between father and son, between brothers. She smiled and waved at all three as they walked toward her in their formal morning suits.

At the sound of little girls' giggles—three flower girls dressed in bright pink silk and organza dresses, flittering around like butterflies in a field of flowers—she turned. The smallest of the girls ran to Sara and twirled in circles.

"Am I beautiful, Mommy? I love my dress! I'm going to wear it forever!"

Sara kissed her daughter. "You are beautiful, Annabeth! Tell me what you are going to do." Sara combed her daughter's dark curls with her fingers. Both her children were beautiful—fraternal twins, a gift, a miracle, when she and Grissom had almost given up having their own children.

"I walk in front of the bride—like this." The child walked slowly for several steps. "Lisette and Meggie walk in front of me and we drop our petals."

Sara bent to the level of her daughter's cerulean eyes. "That's right. Mommy and Daddy will walk in before you and Andy will be in front of us. Then we'll watch you as you walk." Sara tucked a stray curl behind her daughter's ear. "And after the wedding, we'll get to dance and eat cake."

Grissom and Martin joined her, both men giving admiring approval to Annabeth as she danced around them and made funny faces at her brother. Grissom asked, "Does this remind you of our wedding, dear?"

Sara laughed, "Not in the least—but ours was perfect for us." She tilted her head and kissed him.

Grissom pointed to the small children. "Do you think this is going to work?"

At once, Sara and Martin said, "Of course!"

The music changed and the groom linked his arm with Sara's.

Grissom caught his young son, straightened the vest and bowtie the boy was wearing, saying, "Now, Andrew, it's up to you to lead everyone up the aisle."

Gravely, the little boy nodded and took his place at the front of the procession. Grissom stood beside his grown son and asked, "Ready for this?" and gently slapped his hand on Martin's back.

Martin nodded, "It's a perfect day."

Sara quickly looked around for Annabeth and found her with the two other flower girls. The sweet fragrance of flowering trees carried on the breeze. The blue dome of the sky was bright and cloudless. In the distance, the ocean was rippled azure and green with white crests rolling in and breaking against a shoreline she could not see. Sara knew this was one of the most serene, peaceful places on earth.

Martin caught her eye and smiled. She pressed her fingers against his arm, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek, and whispered, "Thank you, Martin, for making this possible. Thank you for this family."

_A/N: How did Sara and Grissom have their own babies? Check out advanced ICSI—intracytoplasmic sperm injection—__NOT__ what some of you thought! (Cornell University website has good information.)_

_Thanks for reading our little fan fiction, a special thanks to those who send us a review! Thank you for letting us into your reading world!_


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